


Cogito Ergo Sum

by your_cringy_father



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Bisexual Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan is Pansexual, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, LGBTQ Character, M/M, NB reader - Freeform, Other, Reader is a trans man, Reader-Insert, Spencer Reid is Bisexual, Trans Male Character, and undefined trauma for various projecting, author hasn't watched the whole show be nice, because I said so, finished in like 3 days, i had to follow my muse, i have no idea what im doing, i need to go back and redo this honestly but have this. incomplete mess, i'll warn you on the pages it happens, im sad at how little i wrote Garcia in here, m/m - Freeform, male reader - Freeform, no beta we die like men, reader has anxiety, transphobic slurs, unsub is like barely mentioned, whoops im not a federal agent so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25562098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/your_cringy_father/pseuds/your_cringy_father
Summary: Since quitting the HRT as their resident negotiator, you're looking for a new job. Looks like the BAU has an opening!Just don't run into lanky, steal-your-heart, idiots until then, aight?
Relationships: Jennifer "JJ" Jareau/Emily Prentiss, Spencer Reid/Reader, Spencer Reid/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW:

To say the switch from your previous place in HRT (Hostage Rescue Team) to the BAU is jarring, would be the understatement of the century. You are a negotiator, the peacemaker, while the rest of your crew was “shoot first, ask questions later”. It was your job to placate not only the unsub, but your team. It was draining, to the say the least. Which is why the first chance you saw an opening at the BAU for a negotiative officer in human resources, you hopped onto the nearest plane to Quantico. 

And when you saw what building you were working in, it’s like the reality of the situation hit you. You had already clocked in your two weeks notice at HRT, meaning that if this job didn’t pull through, you were potentially jobless for an indeterminate amount of time. Government jobs were rare these days with how busy people have been between changing political leaders. There was a slim chance that this would lead to, possibly, a whole season change without a decent paying job. Or, at least, until new offices opened up. 

Don’t panic. Don’t. Panic. 

“Excuse me!” A voice squeaks behind you. Unfortunately, you suddenly realize you’ve been standing outside the front doors for way too long and accidentally blocked a rather scrawny fellow. 

“Sorry--” You stutter, quickly darting out of the way. The man was holding way too many books in one cardboard box. Christ, he was never gonna make it in the door. “Wait!” You call out on chance, seeing him approach the steps with too much speed to be confident he’d make it unscatched. And, as you predicted, his wingtip shoes clip the edge of the first (very dangerous looking) concrete step. The books fly forward and he slips backwards. 

In a moment of what you’re sure of pure Netflix addiction, you make a choice you hope you don’t regret. 

You sputter forward and grab the man as quick as you can, just directing enough centrific force to catch him in what you soon realize isn’t unlike a dip one does in a ballroom dance. Falling books and the definite splintering of cardboard is barely registering as you fall from the rush of adrenaline. Holy shit, you caught someone falling into basically a dip-- was this an anime? 

Oh. Wow. He’s pretty. 

Said victim to gravity stares at you now, eyes wide and pupils blown to a ring of brown. A part of you hopes the blush you see dusting his cheeks isn’t just the weird fantasy moment you’re building.

You swallow hard, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to--”   
“Thanks for catching me uh--”

Both parties interrupt the other. 

“No-- no, you go first--”   
“Please, go ahead--” 

Another awkward chuckle that leads to what you believe to be a genuine smile from the other man. 

“You can let me go now.” He laughs and you nearly drop him in the violent recoil.

“Sorry!” You cry again, dusting off the large mustard colored sweater you have on. This thing cost way too much to ruin, before an interview of all days. 

“It’s alright, uh, I didn’t see where I was going,” He says sheepishly, looking at the mess of books scattered now across the steps, “Over one million Americans suffer from tripping accidents per year, nearly 17,000 of them proving to be fatal. I really should have seen this happening.” 

Your cheeks heat, already uncomfortable with the amount of numeric probabilities that switch and flip in your brain. Math is, in a nice way, your worst enemy. 

“R-right, that makes sense. You’d have to see me on my bad days though, I’m sure I can slip more in an hour then most people do in a year.” It’s cheesy and not very charming of a reply, but you relish in the small grin it brings the other anyway. 

“Are you coming in?” He asks after a second, bending down to pick up some of the books. 

You quickly drop to your knees as well, piling books in your arms, “Yeah, actually. I-I have an interview today.” 

He pauses mid-grab, turning back to you, “Aren’t you going to be late?” 

Briefly, you hear anxiety scream through your brain, but that’s become rather normal now; “Maybe, but I think this might be a better resort anyway.” 

“You know, interviews aren’t easy to come by in the government. This isn’t really something you should skip out on.” 

You roll the words over in your head and a smirk comes across your face as you drop the last trio of books onto your growing pile. 

“I don’t intend on being late.” 

You swing upwards and help adjust whatever books are left in the other man’s arms. Enough for the two of you to carry without overspilling or dropping some, hopefully. Then, with a mischievous glint in your eye, you yank on his cardigan sleeve and push through the front doors.   
In a brilliant moment of understood placement in this now race against the clock, the stranger races with you into the nearest elevator and slams the 3rd floor button. 

You, heading one floor above, wait until he gets to his floor and drop the rest of the books in his arms. He stutters out; “Uh-thanks-- good luck with your interview!” 

“No problem, try not to drop them!” You call back as he begins to turn away. 

Shit-- Opportunity! You have to tell this kind of handsome stranger your name. Even if he’s not gay, it’s worth a shot to just be friends. 

“Y/N! My name is Y/N, by the way!” You call out. 

Just as the doors are closing, you see him spin with a smile and say back,  
“Spencer Reid!” 

The elevator doors shut and you dreamily whisper the words to yourself like a promise. 

“Spencer Reid. Spencer Reid.” 

Cute name. 

\--

By the time you get to the interviewing room, it’s maybe two minutes past the time recommended to be there and you’re sweating like a pig, but even out of breath-- you make it just before the interviews close. 

You can see the man closing his office door, you recognize him from the website-- Agent Aaron Hotchner.   
“Agent Hotchner!” You call out, slightly out of breath from sprinting through the halls. Unprofessional, but you were confident you wouldn’t do it again.

He turns (holy shit, you got his name right) and raises an eyebrow, “You’re late.” 

“My severe apologies, sir--” Do you call him sir? You’d think you’ve never worked in government before, “It’s not an excuse, however I was helping someone outside with some fallen books. I would still love a chance to interview for this job, sir. If I still can?” 

You wait, trying to calm your breaths, and watch as he decides your fate. 

Seemingly, he relents, “Alright. Come in.” 

“Thank you, sir!” You sigh breathily, following him into the office and sitting across from him. You were ready for this part, resume in your bag (laminated, you didn’t fuck around), and rehersed words on the tip of your tongue. 

You just slightly wish that you weren’t thinking of floppy chestnut hair and blown out brown eyes the entire time. 

\--

At the end, Hotchner seems to be the same emotionless expression you first saw him with. You can’t see one way or the other in his face. Weird, in your opinion, but you weren’t dealing with any person. He was probably someone who saw the same nightmares as you. Learned to hide his expression to not set off unsubs. 

Still, for the first time in a while, you were unnerved by an inability to read the emotions behind someone. 

He flips one last time through the resume, tapping his fingers lightly on the plastic covering (seriously, you did not come to fuck around), and gives you a stony expression, “Alright, thank you so much for your time. You’ll be hearing back from us soon if you get the job. You’ve given me…” His lips thin into a line, “Some more things to think about.” 

God, you hope that’s a good thing. 

He gestures to the door and you stand, giving him a slight courteous nod. The second you leave the interviewing room, you want to burst into tears. Christ, that shit will always be stressful, but it’s even worse when your boss is so guarded.   
Your last crew and boss had been so easy to read. Every twitch of their muscles was a secret letter to you, each expression a whisper of gossip. 

It’s been so long since you left someone knowing less than you met them with. 

However, even in this diluted sense of worthlessness, something heavy weighs in your messenger bag. Oh, shit. 

You open it and groan, walking over to the elevators again. You forgot, in your flurry to get to the interview, that you had shoved some of Spencer’s books in your bag. Which meant more personal interaction before you got home and buried yourself in the closest tub of ice cream. 

You stop on the 3rd floor, peering before entering like walking into a jungle. Technically, you’re not allowed to be there. But you also technically didn’t have a job, so you felt it weighed out correctly. 

The front desk is what first peaks your interest. You walk over and drop three books on the counter with a sheepish grin, “Hi, sorry, I’m dropping off some books for someone on the floor here?” 

She gives you a wary glance, probably reading too much into the sweat and near instability from anxiety. 

“Do you have a pass to be here? How’d you get in?” 

“I-I had an interview here, upstairs--” 

“Shouldn’t you be there, then?” 

“I-I k-know, uh, the interview finished and--” 

“Then you should go home.” She finishes, giving you a nasty smile of yellowing teeth. You hear your heart pounding in your ears, blood rushing through your veins as your brain involuntary assumes the worst. You were getting arrested, for sure. You’d lose your job and any opportunity at any other job-- and probably forever be known by the fucking FBI as the idiot who tried to break in with a stupid excuse like BOOKS and--

“Hey!” A voice peeps out of your anxiety and you notice someone’s been at your side for awhile now. Her hand is on your books, and she sends the receptionist a gentle but firm look. 

Blonde hair, big black cateye glasses and dressed casually but formal enough to probably pass detection. 

“Who are these books for, hun?” She asks you, clearly repeating it as if she’d said it before. 

“Uh--” Your throat feels thick and full of cotton, memory isn’t really working right now, “Reid. He dropped them outside. I forgot I still had them in my bag…” 

Her eyes widen in symphony with her smile, “Aw, did you come to return them?” 

“Yeah, it was my fault anyway, I didn’t mean to be in his way and that’s probably what made him fall.” 

“Nah, I doubt it. Spencer is like a stick on legs, a breeze could knock that kid over,” She snorts and picks up the books, pursing her lips at the covers like she recognizes their worth, “Thanks for dropping them off! Next time, if he drops something, make sure to ask for Penelope Garcia first.” She winks. 

“O-Oh!” You sputter, hands shakily going to your bag and ripping a piece of paper from your pocket notebook. You write your name and an apology, before opening the top book in the pile and sliding it in. No way you were brave enough to write your number, but maybe if he remembered your name, if by chance you ever saw him again-- you wouldn’t be the one awkwardly asking if your most mundane action had any difference on his day. 

Penelope gives you a sly smile and pops one last wink before saying, “It’s a hot one outside, be careful!” Before turning tail and disappearing behind the desk, into the office beyond. 

You’re not sure how on earth you managed to not only live through that but make it home, but you’re glad you did. 

Now, it was time for guilt ridden television shows and angry-eating chips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader needs a walk and to stop worrying about whether they got the job or not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: guns/weapons, brief mentions of fear for homophobia but no obvious displays

After three days of waiting, you were already going through the process of grieving your career. How many negotiators showed up to the interview? How many people weren’t, but had so much potential, it was ridiculous to not give them a chance? Did you deserve a job more than them? 

Alright, time for a walk. 

You thought seriously about that guy you met outside the FBI, Spencer Reid. Not even 24 hours after you placed your name in that book did you start regretting not leaving even a number. Or, at least, something more substantial than an apology. Though, you weren’t sure how many pages you’d need to say; “Hey I’m sorry I ruined your day but you’re really pretty, do you happen to be gay AND available?”. That was too much to ask of any person, much less a hot one. 

You bury your face in your hands as you step into the warm afternoon sun. The nausea of shame boiling in your stomach is nothing short of punishment for even putting a message in there. The guy worked for the FBI! I mean, so did you, but christ-- you weren’t in on the whole ‘BAU’ drama. He might have been homophobic. 

You resist rolling your eyes immediately at the thought. The way his eyes bloomed like flowers in spring-- there’s no way he wasn’t as kind as you saw. It’s not like negotiators could tell whether someone was a good person, but you could read microexpressions better than any cop, for sure.   
Every emotion he had didn’t line up to your profile of ‘homophobic’. In most cases, being almost death dropped by a random, suspiciously short, man didn’t mean you politely made conversation with them. No, if he was homophobic, the second you held him, he would have pushed you. God, he definitely would have done something more drastic if he wasn’t a nice guy. 

You shudder and push on, just rounding the street you know to lead you past the park. 

Alright, so Spencer Reid wasn’t homophobic, probably. That’s good, but that doesn’t mean he’d take kindly to you leaving messages in probably important research books. He dropped statistics like you dropped weight on bad days, there’s no way he didn’t need those for some important case. 

But Garcia, Penelope, she let you do it. At any point, she could have stopped you. But she let you not only write it, but put it in the book. So she had to think you were either flirting or apologizing. Or she wanted to get a laugh out of it. 

You frown, remembering the kind way she spoke to you. How her eyebrows creased in worry, like you were someone important. 

Strike two, y/n, she was definitely a good person too. 

Alright that’s two good people in an FBI related field. At that point, you’ve struck gold if you ever got to work near them. HRT’s folks were like red-blooded gun freaks. A cold breeze licks at your neck as you remember the chilling gunshots, every time you failed to convince someone to wait just one second more. You were so close, you could get him to stand down-- just wait! 

You stop, drifting to your left to lean against the park’s outside fencing. It was too early to think about that right now. 

At least you made it to the fucking park, score for you. 

Reclining against the grass, letting the blades of verdant green tickle your cheeks, you wonder if they knew that feeling. Had Spencer ever begged to wait just for a little bit to get someone to calm down? Did Penelope stall, distract her other team members to stop them from making a hasty action? 

The mere thought of either of them in distress shook through you. New thought. 

Maybe you should just go home. 

As you sit up, you look in surprise as several cars (undercover cop cars, it’s easy to tell) whizz past the park. 

Even from where you were, you could identify the branding of the sticker on one of them. BAU cars, strange. They were on high alert, and while you couldn’t see who was in there, you feel like you know who’s in there, who’s going to save someone. 

Standing, you watch the car disappear down another intersection and break your line of sight. 

Alright, maybe you were a little curious. You click open your phone and switch to a police scanner you had from your time at HRT. It was useful to learn what chatter the police were making before you could confidently enter a situation. But you weren’t going to, you remind yourself, you’re just gonna see what’s going on. 

Tuning into the correct line, you hold your phone to your ear and listen intently while the buzz continues.

It’s a robbery, alright, maybe a serial robber making another hit in a couple. If this wasn’t a big deal, the BAU wouldn’t be showing up. Already, you’re standing and cutting through the rows of buildings instead of following the car. The address was muttered eventually and you know exactly where it’s going down. 

And ah, of course, it’s a hostage situation. Last stand robbers then, it seems. 

You’re not going to interfere. It’s not your job, it’s dangerous, and you’re definitely going to be fucking killed for it. Not to mention, you’d lose any chance at a position in the BAU if you jumped into the line of fire like that. 

It’s not hard to dodge suspicion by parking yourself on a fire escape just parallel to where it’s all going down. You snicker to yourself as you see several officers just jog past you like you weren’t even there. No one ever looks up. 

Only a maybe a basketball field away from you where it seemed to be all going down in a jewelry store. From your advantage point, you can see the BAU car and it’s nearby drivers. But it’s too hard in a group of cops to see exactly who’s present. Certainly not Garcia. 

The situation looks pretty chaotic, unorderly, for one part. You watch with a cocked eyebrow as cops surround the place with near fifty weapons ready to tear the building apart. Of course, you’re not surprised.   
Not many people realize, your most dangerous weapon isn’t the machine that fires 50 rounds a second-- but your ability to empathize. 

You cross your arms in front of you, leaning against the railing and watch with a keen eye.   
BAU agents seem spread across the scene, but you can’t see Hotch. It’s some new people, three agents-- two women and one man. You can’t hear what they’re saying over the chatter, but the guy looks pissed. He’s shouting at who you’re assuming is the acting captain of this section who has a smug look and a receding hairline. 

You can tell from his hand movements, he’s definitely suggesting the weapons go away, but you’re not sure why. Curious, you look in the building and try to glance past broken glass and scattering jewels. 

A sight drains the blood from your face, and your fingers feel numb against the fire escape metal. 

There’s a family in there. 

Not only a family, but a couple who looks like they were there for an engagement ring, holding each other like it’s the end of the world. To one of their heads is a pistol, black and definitely military designed. Your heart beats a million miles a minute as you see how close they are to the front of the store. A question as to why is quickly solved when you see the back of the store is where the lines of jewelry, and the men with guns, are.   
They’re in direct line of fire, if any of these guns went off, the families would be slaughtered and only one of the robbers would be killed, leaving the rest of them to probably escape through the back or side. 

You’re halfway down the fire escape before your brain catches up with your actions. 

No, NO, this is such a bad idea! You’re not in the HRT anymore, you’re a negotiator-- but not an employed one!   
This is illegal, your brain screams at you.   
Those people are gonna die, your heart responds. 

You can see from the BAU agent’s face that he’s close to losing. The other agents are pushing through the ranks, trying to convince others to put down their weapons. 

But every inch of the captain’s stance says he’s not gonna back down, and every bone in your body says you can fix this. Goddammit, job or not-- this is now a case of moral righteousness. 

“Hey!” You shout, pushing under the police tape and right up to the offending officer. 

Immediately, his face goes from proud to sour. God, you recognize that face. 

“Negotiation expert, y/n l/n.” You explain, crossing your arms over your chest in hopes the act of smugness doesn’t show the fact you don’t have a single goddamn thing to prove it on you.   
“Negotiations?” The BAU agent blinks at you, clearly confused, “You brought in negotiations?” 

Before the captain can speak, you interrupt him. That’s right, make him sweat. You’re in charge here; “I brought myself here. I was on duty,” About to nap in a park, “And I was informed by an independent officer,” Not a lie, but you heard it over the scanner, “That my presence was needed for a hostage situation that got out of hand.” 

The captain fumes, “It is NOT out of hand!” 

You shrug your shoulders, “That’s not what HQ told me. They said you brought in BAU, and since you were being difficult, they asked for me. You’re lucky I didn’t say no, otherwise you’d need to answer to men like Hotchner why you almost let civilians die.” 

The second you mention Hotchner’s name, it’s like a switch flips in the BAU agent’s head. His unconscious smile says it all-- he’s caught you.   
You’re a little confused as to why he doesn’t say anything, but count your blessings before you forget them, you guess. 

“We weren’t gonna shoot the fucking people,” Great, now he’s calling criminals inhuman. That’s not gonna end up in the report at all, is it? “Just put the pressure on that we can, cut in through the back.” 

You’re already shaking your head and figure, if the BAU agent hasn’t ratted you out already, might as well use him as a resource, “Agent, you’ve seen the men in there-- do they look pressured?” 

“Not at all, L/N.” He nods, almost handing authority over to you. Christ, this can’t be happening. What the hell does he know? Why is he letting you get away with this? 

“Exactly,” Play it cool, “What you’re doing isn’t adding pressure, you’re adding a way out for them. If you keep shoving muzzles in the face of citizens, you’re gonna distract your men enough for them to get away.” 

“Them?” 

You resist the urge to face palm, “You know there’s more than one guy, right?” 

The deafening silence is your answer. You look to the BAU agent, who’s nodding, “There're nine people in that building. Three of a family, a couple, and four people, one of them being our unsub we’ve been tracking for awhile. If you fire into that building, you’ll not only risk their lives, but the confession we need to close this case.” 

The captain remains red faced and angry, you’re sure he’s burst a blood vessel. 

You pretend not to notice, idly looking to your feet like your every emotional cell isn’t telling you to run in there and throw yourself in front of the bullet. 

“If you don’t mind now, Captain, I’d like to do my job.” And you don’t wait for an answer as you brush past him. 

And holy shit, no one stops you. You forgot, in your brief search for jobs, how much power someone holds by just acting like no one can undermine your opinion. 

Alright, no vest, no badge, no gun. Not a total chance you’ll survive this, but you have a good chance of at least leaving without losing your job if you can keep avoiding dropping your full name to BAU agents. Maybe he’d just.. Forget you said it. 

Focus. 

And your head feels like it spins 360 as you step from yourself into the old role of negotiator you miss so dearly. 

You hop a divider, snatching a megaphone and take a deep breath. 

“Good afternoon!” You call into it, startling everyone within three blocks with your volume. 

The criminals in the building react, all turning to you. Good, you got their attention. 

“How are you lovely gentlemen? Feeling comfortable?” 

“Who the fuck are you?” One shouts back. Already, you can hear the college prep school in his voice. This kid has no fucking idea what he’s doing, and his confidence is fueled by fear of being caught. He can’t be older than a freshman in college with how much his voice cracks, how much his eyes bore into yours. 

“Negotiator for the FBI,” You clarify, leaning against the divider and clearly placing yourself between them and the weapons, “And currently, your only way out of this situation. I wanna hear your demands so we can get everyone out of here without a bullet wound.” 

Some shuffling happens in the back, whispers exchanged, and before they finish, the one in the front shouts out, “I don’t wanna go to jail!” 

You sigh, it’s always what they ask for, isn’t it? But this is good, you’ve identified the weak link. 

“I can do that,” You think for a moment before speaking, “Lemme guess, you’re not looking forward to spending time behind bars, right?” 

A pause, and some hushed whispering in the weak link’s direction. 

You push on, “You didn’t want to do this, did you? None of you really wanted to. You’re kids, for sure. Looking for a fun time and a lasting story, not to end your career in gunfire or in prison,” A cautious step forward and you can hear the tension rise, “I was a kid too, you know,” You silently think you still fucking look like one, but whatever, “I did dumb shit all the time! And I’d want someone to do what I’m doing for you now.” 

Here comes the kicker. No, you’re definitely not allowed to give them this, but you’re also not allowed to be here.   
“Come out peacefully, not a drop of blood spilt. Nothing stolen, no one hurt, and you can get away with maybe therapy or community service. No one’s been injured by you, right? So the only thing they can pin on you is maybe some attempted robbery charges. Nothing you can work off in a garden for a couple months, right?” 

Silence falls. 

The weak link shuffles, gun falling momentarily from where it’s pressed to someone’s skull. It’s now or never.   
“Sir, trust me,” You stare him down, furrowing your brows, “If you take that shot and hurt anyone here, I doubt you’ll walk a free man ever again. Take the easy way out, go be a kid, learn from your mistakes.” 

It seems to be the last push he needs before shakily dropping the gun on the ground and practically buckling to his knees. 

The other three start hurling insults, but seeing their colleague give up gives them less hope, you can tell.   
Someone goes down, the rest of them do too. Like dominos. 

“Either you guys wanna shoot someone or walk free. You wanna live with someone’s death on your hands or 12 weeks of washing toilets?” 

Most of them go down after that. 

It wasn’t your hardest negotiation. The first link basically exposed all of their weaknesses like blood indicates a wound. Fear, anxiety, the worst of them all is just the flaws the rest of them refuse to acknowledge.   
Besides, you knew in your heart that they’d never take that shot. If they wanted to, they could have blown everyone’s skull off in that store and probably gotten away. 

As the cops swarm the shop, leaving you in the drift, you glance at your palms with a hard rock in your stomach.   
No one really wants to murder another person. Not really. 

You swallow hard and drop the megaphone, shoving your hands in your pockets. There’s no way you’re getting out of here unnoticed, but maybe you can hobble away before anyone asks questions. Let them forget you, let them pretend they did all the work. 

And that’s when you run into Hotchner. Yeah, the real Hotchner. 

Full on, face to chest. You pull away long enough to see the coldness in his eyes hasn’t melted at all.   
Oh fuck, if you’re not losing your chance at a job, you’re definitely going to be shot by this guy. 

“H-Hotchner, sir.” You mumble, clearing your throat. 

“Y/N.” He states, reading you over. Christ, you wish it wasn’t so creepy.

“Just passing through, I didn’t mean to--” 

“You just impersonated a negotiator.” He scowls, and your eyes go down to your shoes. 

“I didn’t-- uhm--” Speak! “I didn’t impersonate one. I am-- er-- I was one.” 

“Was?” 

“I was in the HRT department, sir, I recently sent in my two weeks due to… impulsive and uncooperative teammates. It was in my resume…” You trail off, bowing your head. 

“You just went in front of thirty police,” Well it sounds worse when he says it like that, “And lied about your current job, saying I had given you permission, and somehow persuaded my own agent to let you get away with this in the name of?” 

You shrug, meek, “They were going to shoot them.” 

“Who?” 

“The family, the couple. They were in the front lines. I’ve been to situations like this before sir, one rookie accidentally shoots and they all do. Blood would be on the line, and those innocent people,” Your voice chokes, “They’d die because no one knows that talking, empathy, is the most important tool.” 

Something in Hotchner stills him, and you can almost hear the catch in his breath. He grunts noncommittally, turning away from you. 

“You committed a crime here, saying you worked for the BAU” Alright. Kind of harsh, “So…” He sighs, “It’s only right you have the job so you don’t get yourself arrested. Pull this again under my orders and I’ll fire you on the spot. Come in on Monday, 6 AM. Don’t be late.”

You nearly get whiplash from your surprise, looking back up at him. Before you can even comment, he’s walking back towards the BAU car, where you see a grinning Reid and the previous BAU agent giving you a thumbs up.   
Both of them immediately turn away when Hotchner sees them. 

They drive off, and you watch them once again disappear into the unknown. 

You pinch yourself, trying to make sure you’re not entirely hallucinating. 

You just got a job. Holy shit. You just got a fucking job!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader has a JOB, WOAH! Now to focus on that and not the guy you sit next to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mention of serial killer and general painful awkwardness

Stepping back up to the same desk that made you so anxious last week is a kind of deja vu you weren’t expecting.   
“Y/n L/n, I’m here for my badge?” Thank god, you know what you’re gonna say this time. The anxiety still thrums through your veins, but less intensely this time.   
The secretary gives you a mild scowl, but turns away and hobbles into an off room. When she returns, she has the same soft leather and golden badge set up you remember having at HRT, but with the gilded letters BAU in them.   
It’s your name, holy shit! It’s your badge!   
“Key negotiator and main legal human social resource for the BAU, here’s your badge.” The secretary mumbles, and you can’t even complain as the items drop into your hand. You feel like you belong again.   
Quickly, you thank her and rush past those unknown doors into the office beyond. Ten steps into the new area, you’re yanked into a side break room.   
You let out a quick yelp as that yank turns into a big hug. 

“Penelope?” You croak, still recovering from the sudden compression. 

“You’re working here! Oh my god!” The voice, now definitely Penelope, responds. 

“I am. Through… breaking a lot of laws.” You waver, chuckling weakly. 

She pulls away with shining eyes and shakes your shoulders lightly, “You’re going to do great here then! Oh my gosh, I have to introduce the rest of the team to my new bestie!” She squeals and squeezes my shoulder. 

“Careful baby girl, you’re gonna kill the new guy.” 

Oh, you think with less happy surprise, it’s the BAU agent that covered for you. Even now, he’s dressing like a casual day at the gym, minus the jeans. He looks at the two of you with a fondness, and you can tell Penelope has to be someone special to him. 

“Nah, Y/N is fine!” She pouts. 

The BAU agent approaches you, hand out for a handshake, “I’m Derek. Derek Morgan. Most people just call me for drinks though.” He winks. 

Alright. Maybe this place isn’t as heterosexual as you thought. 

You snort but shake his hand, “Thanks, uh, Morgan. For Saturday.” 

“No problem.” He smiles, “Penelope was talking mad about you after getting your name from Reid. Said you were some hotshot negotiator. If I thought you’d be any trouble, I wouldn’t have let you get away with such an obvious lie.” 

You burn, “It wasn’t obvious!” 

“To me, it was. Remember, pretty boy, you’re working with profilers now.” 

Shit. He’s right. 

Penelope shoves him, “Don’t intimidate him, we both know he could read us better than we could read him.” 

“Well, I don’t know--” You protest. 

“Negotiator is nothing, I can negotiate!” Morgan says indignantly, teasing. 

“Yeah, your version of negotiation is your boot through a door.” 

“I get answers, don’t I?” 

You don’t even have to say anything as you grab a cup of coffee and slowly push out of the room, into the bullpen. 

You’re surprised with how quiet it is as compared to the now noisy break room. Hotchner, or Hotch as the others kept calling him, is sitting in his office with a book. You know better than to interrupt him, first day at work or not.   
The two women you saw are there too, and you cautiously approach the closest for answers.   
“Hi, uh, I’m Y/N and I just got here, is it alright to go bother Hotch?” 

Her immediate laughter is what you’d assume is an obvious no. The embarrassing blush burns your cheeks.   
“No, no-- I’m sorry--” She giggles, “I’m JJ, this is Prentiss-- don’t bother him. He’s…” JJ rolls her eyes and puts the next words in quotations, “‘In his zone’ before work.” 

“Should I wait?” You ask, fiddling with the edges of your sweater. 

“Yeah, come with me. Rossi is technically supposed to be doing this, but I don’t mind. It’s nice to meet you, uh, y/n, right?” 

You nod, giving her a thankful smile as you follow her to the cluster of desks. She points out the empty one, just alone the outline. 

“You’ll be next to Spence, which is great for the quiet and the worst for questions.” You don’t ask why, you’re sure you’ll learn.   
“You get basic stuff from the start, desktop and the weird stuff they give you--” She opens a drawer and pulls out a company pencil with ‘BAU’ printed across it. Yeah, alright, that is kind of weird. “And as long as you keep your stuff tidy, Hotch won’t bother you for it. I mean, my desk is kinda full at this point.” 

She gestures to it and you peek a sleek blue, magenta, and purple striped pattern against one of the felt walls. Is that…?   
The picture next to it is the nail in the coffin, a smiling picture of JJ and Prentiss. Alright. Well that makes sense why they’re always next to each other. Wait.   
Just below that is a picture of her with a man and a child. Alright. Different assessment. Maybe she was just in a straight relationship. 

“Right.” You hum, now thoroughly convinced the BAU is definitely one of the most queer branches of the government you’ve been in, “Well, thanks JJ. Uh, I really appreciate you not hazing me or something.” 

She chuckles for a moment before noticing you’re not laughing too. 

“Wait, seriously?” 

You don’t offer a reply, looking at her with curiosity. 

“This-- no. They’ll never admit it but,” She smiles with such warmth as she leans against your desk, looking out over the rest of them, “We’re like a family here. Being a part of that might mean some teasing, but we’d seriously never, I mean maybe Morgan but, overall, we wouldn’t do anything to make your transition here any harder.” 

You purse your lips and nod, giving her a grin to dissuade any worries she has. 

“Anyway, we’ll probably be up in five, Hotch likes to start cases early so we can get out profiles ASAP.” She knocks twice on your table and walks back to Prentiss. 

You place your bag on the desk, settling in. They really didn’t slow down for anything. Makes sense, they are a government agency. 

“Ah, hey!” You’re quickly filing away some documents into a manilla folder when you’re broken from your quiet work.  
“Spencer--” You say, seeing him sitting next to you at a desk is as surreal as it gets, but you offer him the friendly hospitality you’ve learned, “Nice to meet you, uh, formally! Oh, you probably forgot, I’m--” 

“Y/N, I know.” He also retracts himself from your outstretched hand, “You know, most germs spread through hand to hand contact. It’s safer to kiss.” 

You try not to let that mental image burn in your head as you nod. 

“You remember me?” You ask, eyeing him as you continue putting away various safety forms you filled out yesterday. 

He taps his head, “Eidetic memory, I can remember images after I look away with near perfect detail. All that’s left is the dialogue and, well, with the correct set up-- you can remember most conversations.” 

You sigh wistfully, “I’d kill for that.” 

“From my experience, some people try to.” 

You nearly choke, but give him a grimace. 

“Sorry, bad joke.” 

“No, I mean, it’s fine. I just kind of forgot you guys get shot at.” 

There’s a brief pause as Spencer puts down whatever book he was holding, “We wouldn’t let you get shot, by the way.” 

You sit up and give him a look, “No one can stop that from happening.” 

“We’ll try our best.” He attempts, “Your negotiation skills, however, are one of the best in the country-- I doubt you’d be in any danger.” 

You try not to blush, scratching the nape of your neck, “That’s a bit of an overstatement.” 

“Not at all!” He gushes, fingers fluttering from their place on his desk, “Garcia did some research on you before you came here, we’ve seen the work you’ve done. That one situation with the miners and the unsub with an explosive rigged to blow was brilliant!” 

You bite your lip, unused to such praise, “It wasn’t that great. They were halfway out it themselves, I didn’t even have to interfere.” 

“But you did!” Spencer adds, breathless, “You went in and saved their lives even if you might have been crushed in the falling rock. And Saturday with the jewelry robbery was proof of it.”

You spin on him, reclining into your chair to seem smaller, “Right-- you were there for that, huh?” Slinging an arm over your face, you groan. 

“It was amazing. No one in the police force was listening to us and you stepped up without even a vest. It was… it was brave.” Spencer trails off, watching you sink further into your chair.   
“Did you tell Hotch about me?” You ask, in the off chance he did. 

“Maybe a little before he approached you.” Spencer admits, “Garcia did most of the heavy lifting. The second she recognized you on the security cam, she called Morgan up. I think it’s the only reason he didn’t pull you from the scene as soon as you spoke.” 

“I owe her my life.” 

“We all do, admittedly.” Spencer says. He leans over, picking up your arm from where it rested to hide your face, “Oh, and, thank you for picking up my books.” 

Dammit, dammit, dammit. He’s hot-- fuck. 

“It was just books.” You shrug him off lightly, as to not offend, and turn back to your desk, surely bright red. You can feel the waves of confusion coming from him, but instead focus intensely on setting up your PC, even though you’re sure it’ll take seconds. 

The door to Hotch’s office opens, and everyone swarms to their seats like bees in a hive. 

“Morning team.” He greets, giving a nod to the group, “I’m sure you’ve all acquainted yourselves with our newest member, Y/n.” You give them all a tentative wave. 

“He’ll be our new negotiative expert, handling our hostage situations and delusion based unsubs who need talking down. He’s got several bachelors in psychology and sociology, as well as a masters in negotiation and conflict management. He’s well earned his job here.” His eyes glance to no one in particular, but you can’t help but feel like it’s a pointed statement to someone anyway. 

“But that’s besides the point. We still have cases to solve, unsubs to find, and people to save. The world keeps spinning. We just recently got a case from Pensacola, Florida. Unsub been matching up to a pattern we’ve been seeing recently, and it’s a theory they’re connected.” 

He tilts his heads towards a whiteboard. 

\--

The overview went mostly uneventful for your first day. It wasn’t an urgent case, and there were some other things to do at the time so everyone was put on a tentative yellow phase, simply cautiously calm. 

Which meant, for the next couple days, you could meet more of the group you were now stuck with. 

Well, by meet you meant people watch. And by people watch, you meant looking at other people for a while before eventually resigning to dreamily watching Spencer Reid work.   
It was kind of ridiculous how beautiful he looked just filing goddamn papers. You weren’t one to admit you had a thing for hands, but holy shit the veins that popped when he flipped pages, signing a quick thing or two before turning back to concentrate on a new document--

“Is there something on my face?” 

Shit! 

“No,” You swallow hard, giving Spencer a smile, “Thought there was, uh, but there wasn’t-- so no worries!” 

He gives you a confused look, but shrugs it off and returns to his work. You mentally curse yourself, tugging on your lip between your teeth. 

“Before this, this job I mean, what did you do?” He asks out of the blue, not looking up from his work. Your surprise must be obvious, because he turns in on himself slightly, “I mean, before all this negotiator stuff. You have some degrees, certainly your main goal wasn’t to be a negotiator.” His sideways grin boils something deep in your stomach to a roll. 

“I wasn’t sure--” You blurt, laughing, “I honestly had no idea. I went into college right after high school with no concept of life outside of… work. I just knew I wanted to help people.” 

“That’s pretty honorable.” He muses. 

“I’d like to think so,” You huff, “But I think I’m just too caught up in philosophy for that.” 

“You like philosophy?” 

The look he gives you is near dreadful and full of surprising concern. 

“Yeah, actually, it’s one of my favorite hobbies, if you can call it that,” You really shouldn’t, but who cares, right, “I picked it up as a minor in college and fell in love. Since sophomore year, I’ve been analyzing the texts of Socrates and Plato, relativity of truth-- Validity of knowledge, presence of a higher power. Interesting stuff, if you have the patience to wade through old straight white men’s speech pattern.” 

“How… How do you stand it?” 

You raise an eyebrow, “... Old straight white men?” 

“No,” Spencer shakes his head, “Philosophy. It’s…” He shudders like the mere thought scares him, “Everything about that study is… answerless. The point isn’t to know things, it’s to know nothing and build from that. No one has a right or wrong because everyone’s too busy with their head stuck in another argument’s ass--” 

“Are you joking? I mean, it’s basically all about answers! It’s purpose is to show the ultimate undeniable truths of life.” 

“You can’t find that, it’s incalculable.” 

“You don’t need to calculate something in order for it to be real.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like abstract thought or societal standards, perceptions of other people!” 

“Untrue, there’s been studies done by Caltech about societal norms and the percentage of conclusions made by people with higher standards than others. In 2011--” 

You burst into giggles, thoroughly confusing Spencer. He attempts to say something, but it falters out when he sees the dimples in your cheeks. 

Leaning over and gently punching his arm, you say;   
“God, you absolute perfect genius.” 

All of the earth couldn’t prepare you for the blossoming of pink across both of your cheeks. You called him perfect. You pushed him. How more obviously could you be flirting with a maybe completely straight guy-- 

“Code red, BAU--” Oh you’ve never been so happy to hear Hotch’s voice, “The Florida Killer’s been seen fleeing a scene in Pensacola, our man’s back in the streets. Wheel’s up in 20, get your go-bag.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: blood/gore/ it's a crime scene so. Christianity used as a homophobia vehicle, panic attacks, insinuations at conversion camp past but no solid memories or description,

You’ve flown in jets before, just not the BAU jet. And wow, did they pimp out their transportation. Since wrecking your sleeping schedule, you’ve been inextricably tired. So plush seating you could rest your eyes in was the most welcoming present to the BAU. 

Your vision blurs slightly, and you can tell you’re falling asleep. It’s only an hour flight, maybe two if there’s struggle pinning a location, and you know better than to-- but you’re so tired and--

Someone sits next to you in this table booth set up near the back of the jet, and you blearily look over to see Spencer and JJ. Spencer looks immediately apologetic, “Ah, sorry-- I didn’t know you were going to sleep--”   
“No,” You take in a shuddering breath, “I’m not, it’s not even a long flight so…” You trail off into a yawn. 

JJ gives you a sympathetic look and reaches out to tap your hand in order to get your attention, “Why don’t you take the couch? Let yourself sleep. I’ll come wake you up when we’re close to landing.” 

You want to protest, but are readily cut off by Reid, “She’s right, if you’re tired while on the case, you won’t be able to be as helpful as you would be alert. No one will bother you.” 

It’s enough for you to nod, head feeling like lead. Reid pulls out of the booth and JJ smoothly leads you to the couch, laying a spare blanket over your form. For a moment, your anxiety spikes when you realize everyone knows you’re about to fall asleep. Would they judge you? Call you out for needing the rest? 

However, you’re startled to see only a brief glance before they turn back to their respectful items of distraction. Even Hotch, who you’d assume would at least give you another trademark cold look, simply passed over your form with nonplussed eyes. 

Weird. These people were weird. You sigh, letting the pleather seats envelop you and the curtains of sleep drowsily pull you under. 

“You guys have been talking a lot,” You hear whispers just out of your range. It’s Morgan, you’re sure of it. You’d recognize his voice anywhere. It’s pleasant to hear him speak so tenderly, calming.   
“It’s nothing.” You hear someone respond. 

“It’s not nothing-- I saw you guys this morning. You guys were like inches away.” Morgan chuckles under his breath. 

“Morgan,” The voice responds again, and you can hear the sharp edge Spencer gets when he’s annoyed (You’ve heard him use it in the few days after your first 24 hours at the job. Mostly with Morgan, as well. Somewhere in your head, you hear an accusatory voice tell you about not analyzing people you work with, but it’s dropped very quickly), “This isn’t appropriate.” 

“Neither is--” 

“You know why it’s nothing, Morgan.” He seeths, and you can almost hear the complex emotions coming off in waves from Morgan. There’s a brief pause, full of tense anguish you can’t identify the source of. Like a quiet angel, JJ pipes out a whispering mournful, “Morgan, maybe we should leave it--” 

“Whatever. You saw it yourself.” Morgan snaps back. 

“I know what I saw. Leave him alone.” 

Your brain simply can’t keep up with the conversation anymore and you slip into the dark quiet once again. 

\--

You’re awoken by a forgiving jostle, but your senses don’t seem to understand that. In an instant, you go from horizontal to vertical, sitting up so fast that your head spins. 

“Woah!” Prentiss wheels back, holding up her hands. You breathe hard, coughing into the junction of your elbow. Fuck, that hurt. “Are you alright?” She asks, eyebrows raised.

“Fine, sorry-- just on edge.” You explain and push back the blankets, gathering your bearings. You’re the last on the plane besides Prentiss, even your bad is off the plane. “Where is…?” 

“Everyone’s already in the lobby, we thought you might need a few extra minutes.” She says, eyes downcast as she adjusts the bag on her back. Your eyes narrow, she was hiding something. “Let’s go,” She gestures with her head towards the door and helps stand you up. The two of you walk outside, adjusting terribly to the hot sweltering heat of Florida.   
With this weather, you’re not surprised some people here commit murders. You would too if you had to deal with this heat all the time. 

“They didn’t forget me here, did they?” You ask, the thought prickling in the back of your head.   
Prentiss is set back by the question, but answers, “No, I stayed behind on purpose and told everyone to go ahead. You looked… Tired as hell.” 

You snort, “I am.” 

“For any reason in particular… or?” 

She’s getting at something, but you wouldn’t dare participate in some backhanded game of cat and mouse, “Yeah, I mean I’m going from sleeping until noon to waking up at 5 AM, it’s not an easy transition.” You laugh. 

Emily doesn’t reply, simply nodding. 

Score one to you, you think. 

When you reach the rest of the group, it’s clear they’re all antsy to get moving. Cresting over the staircase, JJ races over to embrace Emily in a hug, which she reciprocates with a laugh.   
“I was gone for like, three seconds Jay.”   
“Seconds too long.” 

You feel your lips tug into a smile at that. Even if they weren’t dating, that was actually really adorable.   
Emily glances quickly around and is suddenly pushing her lips against JJ’s, grinning into the kiss.   
Oh shit. Oh. Oh Shit. 

Christ, BAU really was more queer than you thought. 

“JJ. Prentiss. Let’s get moving.” Hotch calls, though it’s noticeably more fond than his regular reminders. The two break apart and hold hands as they join the group. Morgan rolls his eyes jokingly, ruffling JJ’s hair, “Alright, don’t rub it in that you’re dating someone.” 

“Someones.” She corrects and the two of them laugh at this somehow inside joke. 

The entire group moves as a squadron to the site of the recent crime.

It’s littered with police tape and news sources by the time you all get there, piled into a truck like a shitty family vacation. 

“Shit, outlets are here.” You hear Hotch scowl as Morgan rolls the vehicle up the victim’s driveway.   
“Y/N, JJ, handle PR, try and keep the news out of this mess the best you can. We’ll head inside. Reid, Prentiss, start questioning the witnesses. Me and Morgan will collect what info we can from the scene and whatever officers will speak to us.”   
With a heavy sigh, he swings open the door and everyone sparks into motion. You follow JJ into the thick of the crowd, pushing up towards an opening where it seems the police were attempting to contain the news behind a simple wooden divider. 

JJ gives your forearm a reassuring squeeze, “Let me do the talking, this is my thing.” She smiles.   
You have no qualms about that, you’re definitely not the best in situations outside high pressure hostage switch baits. Probably need some therapy about that soon. 

She waves down the press and walks over to the closest microphones. You’ve never seen JJ in her prime, but you hope you look half as confident as she does speaking to them. It’s like she’s done this a million times over, and you’re pretty sure she has. Her voice draws you in, but never panics you. Hell, by the time she finishes her small speech, you’re almost convinced yourself that this wasn’t a matter for public panic.   
But, then again, you knew it was. 

JJ turns down the rest of the questions with an experts grace, explaining that she is very busy and cannot answer any more questions, but that she’ll be back as soon as possible with answers for the people.   
Your jaw is on the floor, which she laughs at. 

“That was amazing.” You explain, catching up to her as she begins her trek to the victim’s house. 

“That was entry level,” She scoffs, and you don’t miss the insecure wince that follows it, “They were really calm, honestly. It’s nothing too big--” 

“No, no-- I’m a negotiator. My job is to calm people down, but that was amazing.” And for a moment, she gives you a genuine grateful look. 

Then the thunder above you rolls, and your stomach rolls with it. 

She frowns, “We should hurry-- if it’s going to rain, we could lose valuable evidence.” And she jogs the rest of the way inside, you in tow. 

Hotch seems already on edge, scribbling something down in a small notebook. 

“Hotch,” JJ says. He looks up at her immediately, “We’ve got rain coming in, I think. We should prioritize outside evidence as soon as possible. If we lose anything--” 

“You’re right,” He hums, scanning the living room and fixating on a broken window near the back, “JJ, take Reid to the back and see if you can take pictures of the building’s external. Try and find any footsteps. It’s been raining a lot, maybe the ground’s been soaked enough to leave some mud imprints.” 

She nods and takes off towards the kitchen. 

“Should I…?” You start cautiously. 

Hotch starts, almost as if he had forgotten you were there. He looks between you and his notepad, and like always-- you can’t tell what the hell he’s thinking. 

“Stick with me. We’re investigating the main scene and I need your fresh eyes.” 

“Right.” You nod all too eagerly. Finally, some action. You weren’t a detective by any means, but even Hotch could see your opinion could give a good perspective he maybe didn’t consider. It felt good to know he saw some value in your time here besides a voice. 

Together, you push past the double doors of this expansive mansion and into the master bedroom. It’s larger than any apartment you’ve owned, but your personal life is anything but important in this moment. 

The room is littered with gore. It doesn’t take a BAU agent to see this was a crime of passion, of hate. A slice of viscera crimson splits the room in two, like the victim was cut across the neck in a smile. Blood drips from almost all surfaces, pooling on the floor under a wooden chair with rope bindings loosely hanging from it’s arms. You see thick chunks of carved flesh on the carpet, squeezed of their blood, and just above it hangs a message written in red. 

‘Leviticus 20:13’ 

You buckle, clutching your stomach with a wince. You know that phrase, you know that line. 

“Y/n?” Hotch calls from what feels like a million miles away. You shake your head, struggling to your feet and saying what you know is in your head;

“Bible. It’s from the Bible. It’s a line about homosexuality,” The bile that coats your tongue grows thicker as your childhood unhelpfully writes the verse in your throat, “If a man practices homosexuality, having sex with another man as with a woman, both men have committed a detestable act.” 

You feel a hand rest on your back, steadying you. Continuing, you mutter, “They--They must both be put… put to death,” You choke, “for they are guilty of a capital offense.” 

Speaking those words again feel like biting sandpaper, grinding your teeth against grit and texture. You have’t heard that in awhile. You had almost hoped it had left your habitual brain. 

“Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to get emotional.” 

“Don’t apologize.” You startle, hearing the thick anger lacing Hotch’s voice. It makes sense after a moment, how furious he is. But you can see in the way his eyes burn the letters like he could make them disappear if he wished them gone hard enough. “I apologize for bringing you in here, I was more asking for your opinion on the state of the room. I hadn’t seen…If I knew, I wouldn’t have brought you in here.” 

Through the fog, you wonder if Hotch somehow knew you were gay. You weren’t that obvious, were you? Wait, more importantly, was he blaming himself? 

“This isn’t your fault.” You say, turning away from the passage on the wall, “Most people don’t know that passage by heart. Most people… shouldn’t.” 

He sits in silence, hand not leaving your back. 

“I’ll write down the passage and you can leave. I can assess this room myself.” 

“But--” Him by himself definitely wasn’t going to lead to any new conclusions. It’s not like you haven’t seen gore before, it’s not like all of them haven’t probably seen worse. One hateful passage should mean nothing. 

He holds up a hand, “I hadn’t considered this to be a hate crime, especially one that would be so personal to members of my team. It’s important to understand a scene, yes, but I won’t risk you for something I can easily do on my own. I meant for this to be a… learning moment. I clearly miscalculated, that was my fault.” 

It stings, for a moment. It sounds like he’s accusing you of not being strong enough, but you can tell by the guilt shadowing his lids that he finds this to be a burden he carries. 

What the hell has he been through? 

“Go outside, we’ll leave for the hotel soon.” 

You don’t have the words to explain your concern, so you simply walk out of the room and into the backyard. It had begun to rain, just like JJ said it was going to. 

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. 

“JJ?” You call out, looking over by the side of the house. You could really go for her comforting presence right now. She was by the peremiter, right? 

Instead, who stumbles out from the side of the house is Spencer, eyes wide and hair sticking to his forehead. 

Your laugh feels hollow. 

“Y/n? Is everything okay? Where’s Hotch?” 

You take a moment, when he gets closer, to push the wet hair out of his face and help guide him just under the roof. Couldn’t have him getting too cold. 

“He’s in the master bedroom, there was some more things he needed to check up on that… I can’t.” You say, picking the skin around your thumb with your finger. 

“Are you alright, though?” He asks again, watching you with wariness. 

“No,” It’s not a lie, you don’t think you can lie right now, “But I’ll be fine.” 

His expression falls and he tilts his head down slightly to look at you more clearly, “First cases here aren’t easy to begin with. I’m sorry that this had to be the first.” 

You’re already shrugging it off, throwing up walls, “I’m a negotiator, I’ve seen worse.” 

“We all say that.” 

You both stand there, just out of the rain. Fingers tightening on your forearms, you wish you brought warmer clothing than your simple longsleeve, it wasn’t nearly as warming. A shiver runs through your spine as the rainy chill blows drops onto your already chilled cheeks. 

“H-Here,” Spencer says suddenly, and you look up to see him almost furiously pulling off his coat. He places the dark brown cardigan around your shoulders, and the overwhelming scent of pine fills your senses, “It’s not much, but hopefully it’ll keep you warmer. Did you know, 64% of those ages 18 to 30 get the common cold 1 to 3 times a year.” 

He fully expects you to ignore him, but instead, you push closer to him and whisper, “Really?” 

He blinks, and you can feel his hesitation flush away to childish joy, “It can last to up to 3 weeks on average. And, as opposed to the flu, when you get a cold, you should get fresh air and exercise.” 

“What should you do if you get the flu?” 

“Plenty of bed rest, actually. There’s no cure for the common cold, but there’s many for the flu. The best of them being plenty of sleep. Your body is a self regulating machine of impeccable order and influence, it generally knows how to heal itself with the right encouraging medicine.” 

You hum, letting yourself stare off into space, listening to Spencer talk about almost anything and everything. 

You don’t know when you end up leaning on his shoulder, knuckles brushing, but you do know that neither of you stop the other. 

\--

When the day is over, you’re glad it’s done. Hotch pulls open the back door and tells you both that their examinations are over, and it’s time to head back-- regroup. 

You’re happy it’s done now, not even sparing the room a glance as you hurry back to the truck. 

The drive back is mostly quiet. You’re not sure who knows what the purpose behind the crime was, but it’s not hard to imagine they all know. 

Would they still do the case? You guess, of course. None of them seem as beat down as you do, if anything they’re more energetic. Fueled by outrage. Or maybe just tired from the flight. Your muddled, depressed brain isn’t working too well right now. Your usual spot on assessments have been thoroughly thrown since you read the same words priests would threaten to carve on your skin. 

But, you don’t miss the way Prentiss and JJ hold hands a little tighter when they walk into the hotel. 

You almost miss room assignments, getting bunked with Morgan. Not a huge deal, he seems like an alright guy and mostly unpreturbed by today’s events. Besides, when he sees you struggle to pull your luggage, he swoops it up with a charming grin and wink. You can’t stop the teasing roll of your eyes. He really does remind you of Penelope. 

Prentiss and Emily bunk together, as well as Hotch and Spencer. Penelope, apparently, rarely comes along on these outings, much more useful in her ‘batcave’. 

Dropping into your room was the best news this day brought you. You manage to make it to the bed before falling face first, bringing a laugh from Morgan. 

“Tired, pretty boy?” 

“Exhausted.” You chortle. 

“Well, I’m going to shower first. Feel free to do whatever, but I need to get this sweat off me.” 

You wave as he disappears into the bathroom, hearing the squeaking of the faucets a moment later with the responding rain of the shower. 

Thinking, you pull out your laptop and connect to the hotel’s wifi, needing to google something. 

You search the quote you saw today, and feel the hard rock in your stomach deepen when you see how correctly you had quoted it. You were right, the habit they drilled into your skull so many years ago still bred like an infection in your brain.   
Infection. Flu. Spencer. 

Had he seen the passage? Did he know what it meant? Did they know what it meant to you, that simple word and set of numbers? 

How long has it been since you’ve seen your family? 

You click off the website and instead switch to some calming tunes. Today isn’t the day to deal with that. 

Morgan exits the shower not much later, looking troubled. 

“What’s wrong?” You ask. No point in beating around the bush. 

“Today, the unsub… wrote something on the wall.” He says, pulling on a shirt, “It’s fucked with me all day.” 

“Leviticus.” You say. 

“Yeah. Usually that kind of stuff doesn’t get to me anymore. But today,” He leans into the bed beside yours, pain rolling through his eyes, “Today it hit harder. That man died because our unsub knew something about him that everyone else didn’t. Killed him over something he had to keep secret. Does that…” He struggles for a moment, “Does that make me responsible?” 

“How so?” You ask, incredulous. 

“People wouldn’t feel a need to keep this kind of stuff hidden if we were just a more…” He almost snarls, battling something in his head, “It’s just something I wish people didn’t need to do. And if I’m somehow making people think--” 

“Is this… is this about something else, Morgan?” You ask. 

“No! Yes… I’m not sure. I hate keeping secrets! I hate it when other people have to keep them as well. It’s like I need to… be more out to compensate for people who can’t be.” 

“Be more out.. I-- Morgan you--” 

“Yes,” He finishes for me with an exasperated sigh, “I’m pansexual. Turns out most people are attractive, I just didn’t realize it was okay for more than… one.” 

“No!” You hastily add, shaking your hands in defense, “I-I knew that. Well, not pansexual, but I knew you were probably queer when you hit on me--” He snorts at that, “It’s just-- You don’t need to make up for something that isn’t your fault.” 

He doesn’t stop you, but watches you with curiosity. 

“Being yourself, well that’s the best thing you can do. You don’t need to, if I’m reading this right, be more obviously gay to make up for the people who can’t be to live. That’s… taking responsibility for things that aren’t your fault. You didn’t make those people hide who they were, their family or-or community did. Even if you were open… Sometimes that can’t help. You need to be yourself for the people who want to be like you, people who see you as inspiring!” 

Morgan gives you a once-over, maybe testing your genuinity before saying with a small simper, “You sound like JJ.” 

“I’ve only been here for like, a week. There’s no way I--” 

“You definitely sound like JJ.” 

You sputter and grab a pillow, flinging it at Morgan. He catches it with a laugh. Instead of throwing it back, he holds it to his chest. 

“Thanks, Y/n. I think I needed to hear that. You’re… you’re a good guy.” 

“Yeah, uh, no problem!” You aren’t drunk enough to debate good-ness, and nowhere near willing to talk about your own plausible light side. 

He lays down, rolling over to turn off his side lamp, “Try and get some sleep tonight. If it bothers the fuck out of you-- at least listen to your music outside so I can get my beauty sleep.” 

“God knows you need it.” 

“Watch it, I’ll know where you sleep for the next few days.” He teases back, flipping over in the covers so his back is to you. 

Maybe he was right, maybe you should get some sleep. 

Turning off your light and putting away your laptop, you settle into clean sheets. 

In moments, you’re asleep again-- dreaming of crimson red letters, melting in the fresh rain, and brown hair that smells like pine trees.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: drugging/kidnapping (cmon. you've read criminal minds fics right. this is kinda standard), internalized homophobia, annoying cops 
> 
> hey acab btw

You wake up the next morning to several startling knocks. Still tired, now slightly annoyed, you throw on a simple crop top and shorts in case it was a cleaner.   
Stomping over, you throw open the door with an irritated sounding, “What?”

In front of you was Spencer Reid, of fucking course. His face burns red as he quickly averts his eyes from your midriff to look up.   
“Hotch says we’re off to one of the previous scenes soon. Ma-Make sure Morgan’s up.” 

From behind you, you hear an irritated grunt, which you assume is the only verbal confirmation you’ll get from Morgan right now.  
“I’m on it.” You say and watch, perplexed, as Ried keeps looking at the ceiling all the way down the hall, even though you’re sure he’s lost sight of you. 

Weird. Alright. 

There’s not much time to think about it though, instead forcing yourself to get ready for the day before Morgan hogs the bathroom. 

\--

Eventually, the group rejoins in the lobby and Hotch begins his introduction to the plans for the day. 

“We’re starting a profile, I think we have enough evidence from yesterday to build one. On top of the physical pictures JJ snapped for us of the exterior of the house.” 

You look at him with shock, is he already so confident? 

“We’ve seen this type before, and we think he’s a copycat of a killer from the late 90’s-- the same weapons, same mode of entry. Even some of the same copied verses. What’s confusing me still though, is why they target people who aren’t largely outed yet.” 

Emily furrows her brows, sparing a glance at Hotch before saying, “Wait, the unsub-- do we have a guess to their life story?” 

“Not much,” Morgan says to her, “We have theories that he’s probably male, caucasian, middle to high class socioeconomic status. Not a single person in the neighborhood called in any suspicious figures that night or the day before, which means either we’re dealing with someone who guessed the times the vic would be at home alone, or--” 

“He looks like he fits in with the crowd. Not someone people would find suspicious.” Reid says, tapping his chin in thought. 

“Right. Exactly why we think it.” 

“But that’s not what I mean,” Emily continues, clearly annoyed, “His religious affiliation, it’s probably Christian, right?” 

“Considering he posted bible quotes in blood, I’d say that’s a safe guess.” Morgan replies. Emily shakes her head, deep in her memory. 

“Something’s off.” 

The topic seemingly drops as you all pile into the truck, rolling off towards the police department. It wasn’t really something you were looking forward to, but you knew their permission to scout these places would make your job much easier. Didn’t mean you had to enjoy it, though. 

You’re wearing more professional clothes now, back to your slim sweater (learning from your mistake yesterday) over a white collared button up. Even your glossy oxford-look alikes screamed that you had more to offer. Something about yesterday threw you off your tracks, and you feel the need to compensate that with smart looks. 

Still, the small things that ruin the outfit bother you most. Maybe it’s the small scuff on your heel or the way your hair won’t stay in place, no matter how much product you use. Or the self conscious way you can smell yourself, wishing you don’t smell like anything gross that you’re subjecting these people to. 

You’re glad when the truck stops and you can hop out, following the team inside. 

\--

You’ve seen the others in their areas of strength, but their finesse still blows you away. 

Hotch steps up to bat, holding a pointer in his hands and tapping a picture taken of the gruesome scene. In short, he explains the profile they’ve been making since they saw the scene;

“We’re looking for an experienced man, maybe someone who’s been eluding escape for awhile-- like your Florida Killer. White, perhaps mid thirties to early forties. His socioeconomic status has to be within middle to higher class. We’re looking for someone who values religious context, probably has crosses up in cars, walls, has written scripture somewhere in their home. It would be valued pretty highly, to the point where they would write verses in blood on someone’s wall.” 

A cop in the back straightens up, and you can read his waves of displeasure from the shadows. He’s going to interrupt soon if he doesn’t change topics. 

“That’s it!” Emily says suddenly, drawing all eyes to her, “The unsub, he might be a victim of conversion therapy. Or an attempt at it. If you wanted to condemn someone for their actions, there would be a presence of god-like phrases, quotes about death or the balance of heaven or hell. But they don’t--” She walks over to the screen and rips off a picture of the verse, “This one is specifically from a different translation than most bible users. It’s from the New Living Translation, not King James. It’s used by conversionists to qualify death penalties, or changing someone’s sexuality. We’re not just dealing with any religious extremist--” 

She scribbles down a note on the picture and pins it back to the board, “We’re dealing with internalized homophobia coming out in violent ways. A stressor probably being the recent coming out gone wrong or maybe a leap in the city’s LGBTQ+ human rights clause.” 

You don’t miss the way JJ watches her in awe. 

“I think you’re onto something, Em.” Reid says, flipping through the file and connecting the dots as well, it seems. 

“Don’t encourage her, Agent--” Here we go. You knew this was coming, the cop from the back now standing up, “This is obviously the Florida killer but nothing links these deaths other than a religious presence. For all you know, it could be some off their rocker homo, getting revenge.” 

Reid’s jaw clenches, and before you can do anything, he spirals into a conversation you know he wasn’t invited to speak at, “We do, though. You see the evidence in front of your face, don’t you? The unsub was an inconspicuous figure in high places, killing people for something they knew. We don’t know their sexual orientation but these days, it’s not hard to find someone’s online presence and blackmail them, or kill them. There’s been slim to none evidence of murder of one’s own percieved community, and we know those victims were of various, curious states of figuring out their sexuality--” 

“Reid.” Hotch snaps, but Spencer pushes on. 

“If you’re not going to take the evidence we give you and simply push it aside, you might as well have not invited us here for a murder you can’t seem to solve. And it's ‘doctor’, not ‘agent’.” He finishes, gritting his teeth. 

“I didn’t ask for you to be here.” The cop snarls back, “If it was up to me, we’d find some other agency to catch this guy. Not a bunch of queers in vests, pretending they’re better than us.” 

“Enough!” Hotch roars, vein in his forehead popping. You flinch, grabbing onto Spencer’s arm on instinct. Something deep inside you begs to protect him from what you're sure will be Hotch’s unbridled rage. 

“We’ll get nothing done by arguing. This is the evidence we’ve collected and the conclusions we’ve come to as unbiased third parties. Our job is to catch this guy, we wouldn’t lead you in the wrong direction.” 

A pause comes over the crowd and the cop sits, crossing his arms and mumbling to himself. 

“Thank you,” Hotch breathes. The room deflates of tension for the moment, Reid now dead staring down the floor. 

“Now…” Hotch says, licking his lips nervously, “Any questions?” 

\--

The second you all leave the building, Morgan is calling up Garcia, asking under his breath about how quickly she can find online spots for closeted LGBTQ+ people.   
You, still unable to let go of Reid’s arm, squeeze it to get his attention, “Are you alright?” You ask. 

He gives you a wary look, “Yeah, sorry. He was just being rude to Emily for no reason. She’s right, though.” 

“She is,” You agree, “I didn’t even realize, but she hit the nail on the head. Our unsub is going after closeted LGBTQ+ people because he probably thinks they need help, or at liars. It didn’t click until she said it.” 

“That’s what makes her so great.” Reid chuckles, patting the hand gripping him. 

“Is Hotch going to yell at you?” You ask lowly. 

Spencer raises his eyebrows, “Probably not. As much as he’s annoyed by me sometimes, I don’t think he’d yell at me over defending someone. Especially if it’s Emily.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, of course. Hotch isn’t like that. He honestly cares about us.” 

You let that ruminate in your skull, thinking back to his moment of tenderness with you. 

“Maybe.” You hush. 

\--

Moments later, Garcia calls Morgan back, and the group puts her on speaker while sitting in the truck. 

“You’re out and loud, sugar baby.” Morgan says, placing the phone in the center console so you could all hear. 

“Afternoon, six dwarves to my snow white,” You can’t help but laugh at that, “I’ve got a good hit on who your man is. Your vic’s all seem to be coming from a pretty low-activity forum called ‘Christian Confession’. It’s one of those old websites from 2009 that never got the tip to upgrade to facebook. There’s a specific thread where a lot of the ‘disciples’ of this forum will ask for private confession sessions. Usually, people come back and respond how they, ‘love the experience’, but three folks haven’t responded afterwards around the times they went missing. Maybe a day or so before.” 

Your eyebrows furrow, “But who are they talking to?” 

“It’s unclear, there’s several ‘priests’ on the website that you can talk to, but they don’t say who they get paired up with. It just happens when you request one.” 

“So maybe they knew they were questioning before the confessional?” JJ supplies.

“Maybe, but at least we’ve narrowed down our possible unsub. How many priests are on the website?” Hotch asks, leaning forward. 

“Only six.” 

“Perfect. Send me their socials and criminal background. Dig around and see if you can find their credit card history as well. Maybe they’ve been doing some hardware shopping for new rope since they lost theirs.” 

With that, Garcia lets out a cheerful salute and hangs up. 

“What now?” You ask, to no one in particular. 

“Now,” Reid says with a rather dulcet tone, “We need to sign up for Christian Confession.” 

\--

That night, you’re up late searching through your guilty pastime. Biographies and arguments of late roman philosophers. 

Okay, so it wasn’t the coolest thing to do, but comfort was found in those lines of unknowing truth. In philosophy, you knew your answers were led by the truth, by the absolute valid true and factual knowledge, not by beliefs.   
Sophomore year, it was the first thing to bring you out of religiously scarred self. That people didn’t believe in what you had grown up thinking, that it was actually incorrect to even spread those beliefs. Knowing how to argue for yourself, for your life, made it easier to live with the demons in your head. 

You leave your hotel room when it begins to dawn on 2 in the morning, and the bright screen is lighting up too much of the room for you to comfortably believe Morgan could sleep peacefully. Your unrest shouldn’t be his grave to lie in. 

Settling down in the lobby’s common area, you see Spencer and Hotch currently sitting next to each other at the bar. 

There’s a brief moment of pause, whether it’s okay for you to interrupt or not, when you say fuck it and walk over to them.

“Y/N.” Hotch says, surprise on his tongue, “You’re still awake?” 

“As are you.” You point out, sitting next to him on the other side. 

“We were discussing the case, about what…” Reid trails off, spinning a glass of dark liquor, “What we think should be the right course of action, here.” 

Hotch seems reserving, but lets it pass without complaint. Curious. 

“It’s not easy.” You say, pursing your lips, “I know I’ve barely been here for more than two weeks, but I can’t imagine how doing this, leading a case like this, must feel like.” 

Hotch knocks back the rest of his drink at that, breathing out the heavy smell of scotch. 

“I don’t know how it feels either, if that helps.” Hotch says, hopping off the bar stool and sliding on his coat. “I’m done for the night. Get some rest at some point tonight or I’ll bench the both of you.” 

Spencer gives him a curt wave and you become oddly aware of how much distance is between the two of you. 

“Would you…” Spencer clears his throat, “Drink? Do you want a drink?” 

“No, thanks. I’m trying to process too much for alcohol right now.” 

“Process?” He asks, taking another sip of his drink. 

You light up, placing your laptop on the bar and opening it, “I’m reviewing some older studies of Descartes and comparing them to Popper’s counter argument nearly ten decades later!”   
You turn the laptop towards him and like clockwork, he pushes over to sit next to you. His eyes scan the screen for only a second before leaning back to look at you, “That’s rather petty of him, isn’t it?” 

You balk, “What do you mean?” 

“The guy’s dead, should you really be arguing with him? He can’t hear.” 

You purse your lips, “It’s not like that, not really. You see, people think arguing is always about who’s the wittiest, who wins. But philosophers,” You say the words with a smile, “It’s not about who’s stronger or smarter, it’s about who can give you a new perspective. In fact, arguing amongst philosophers is generally seen as an opportunity for new information. They’d thank each other for opening their eyes.” 

Spencer scrolls down the page you’re on, his face twitching into a grin at the notes you’ve highlighted and added in between the script. 

“Can you read that fast?” You ask, watching him pass through the website that took you months to fully digest. 

“Yes, actually. I can read about 20,000 words per minute.” He pauses, “I have an IQ of 187. The human brain tends to focus on the conscious understanding of words, while I tend to trust my senses to finish the job.” 

“That’s amazing.” You breathe, truly in awe, “You really are uh-- well, you’re a genius.” It’s more stutter than sentence, but the compliment seems to get across. 

It’s parallel to the last time you called him a genius smacks you across the face, and it seems to hit Spencer too, who turns in, almost docile. 

“A perfect genius, right?” It’s a joke, you know it’s a joke. Then laugh like it’s a joke, idiot. 

“Yeah.” You say instead, your voice betraying the absolute wonder and reverence you have for the way he flushes under low lighting, “No, I mean it. I think you’re actually just some… stupidly perfect genius.” 

He stammers, flexing his hands together and apart for a bit. 

“Perfect in an unattainable goal, it’s a thought form made by insecure capital billionaires to just get more money…” 

“That’s different,” You say, mind still reeling, “I don’t mean perfect as in what they think is perfect.” 

“What’s your idea of perfect then?” 

You think for a moment, the laptop forgotten as you drum your fingers across it. 

“Art.” You say, after a pause.

He smirks, letting out a chuckle, “Don’t be cheesy. I asked seriously.” 

“And that’s my serious answer.” 

“Explain it, then, because I fail to see the relevance.” 

Still unsure of how you’re even still speaking with how tongue-tied you feel, you plow on, “What makes art is the aesthetic emotion it brings out in the audience. An aesthetician I read about once said something, Wittgenstein I think his name was, that art isn’t defined by the artist, but rather something you know when you see it. Art defies definition by being the emotions it gives it’s onlookers.” 

You turn so your knees touch, watching as his eyes dart across your form, tongue darting out to wet his lips. 

“And what emotion am I bringing out to you, silly philosopher?” He whispers, leaning forward so close that your noses nearly touch. 

“Do I really need to say it?” You sigh, heart beating so quick in your chest that you’re afraid it might burst. 

“I…” Spencer swallows hard, breath wavering as his hand ghosts your arm, “I… Need to sleep.” His throat clicks with dry promises. 

“What?” You sputter, leaning back as he moves so fast, you barely have time to talk before he’s stalking off into the lobby again. Your fingers graze your lips, unmistakably tingling with the hot breath his proximity brought you. 

It’s like a cold bucket of water dumps over your skull, shaking you from your inner turmoil. Did he just.. Yes he definitely was going to kiss you, right? That wasn’t just in your head? Christ, how close did you lean into him? Were you reading it all wrong? 

You groan and rub at your tired eyes. It’s too fucking late. He’s already gone and you’re left with the fucking tab. 

It’s not the first time you’ve been irreversibly left like this. 

But you thought this was different, that he really was okay with this. You couldn’t be making up all the signs, right? Who calls another person a ‘silly philosopher’ without kind of flirting?   
Then, itself spells out in your head. 

That morning, oh god, that morning. You had gone out in a crop top that definitely flashed the silvery lines of crescent scars just above your ribs. 

Oh. 

Spencer was gay, bi, whatever. But he didn’t like you maybe because of…

Your hand hovers over where you know the ages old scars are. You thought it’d been long enough that most people didn’t question it. Top surgery had been such an ordeal to go through alone, especially the recovery. Your scars had never healed the way you wish they did, and often brought more attention. 

He knew. He had to know. The way he looked up when you answered the door was just his polite way of acknowledging your past chest. Some people could never get past it, seeing someone who used to have a chest now go shirtless. A part of you, after the talk with Morgan, hoped wordlessly that maybe… people didn’t believe that here. 

You scowl past the prickling tears in the wells of your eyes. Again, it wasn’t like you being trans wasn’t always the reason people left you. It made your parents throw you out, made your aunt force you into a camp, and drove most potential significant others away. 

Right. It was better this way. Because you’re a freak. 

You notice with bleary eyes, that most of the bar’s lights had turned off in your wallowing. Of course, you think, perfect end to the night. 

“Drink?” A voice besides you says. You wetly chuckle, wiping the tears from your cheeks. 

“No, sorry, I don’t really have the cash to spare on alcohol right now.” 

“On the house.” The bartender says with a smile, “You look like you just had a rough breakup.” 

You sniffle, gratefully accepting the glass of dark liquid. It’s a sharp scotch. Not your specific taste, but free drinks were free drinks. Maybe it’d ease the pain of tonight. 

“Not really a breakup,” You explain, “More like a… maybe an end to my career.” 

The bartender says nothing, wiping down glasses from his lax position against the bar. 

“I thought he was, uh,” You sigh, “I don’t know. I thought he maybe… liked me.” 

“And he didn’t?” 

You snort, taking a long sip of the drink, “Obviously not. Otherwise he wouldn’t have ran.” 

“Can you blame him?” The bartender snorts, setting down a glass shot glass on an already clean stack. 

Alright. Curious. 

“No, I just wish he didn’t run like I was some kind of…” You swallow hard on your thick tongue, “Like I was some kind of freak. Could have at least said goodbye.” 

You wince, your skull progressively getting more and more heavy on your shoulders. You push the rest of the drink back onto the bar, “Sorry, I think I’m a little tired or something, that’s a-- A strong drink.” 

He says nothing, and you think its strange until your legs buckle under your weight, slipping off the bar and landing hard on your ass. Fucking hell, you weren’t that much of a lightweight! Right? 

“Spence…” You slur, pushing through the blurry panic that fuels your muscles onwards. Something bites hard in your brain, something you think should be more obvious. 

The unsub. The fucking unsub knows the clients before he lures them by the website. Suddenly, the clouds part-- of course. The rich upper class use this bar and hotel to meet lovers, and the one person who could treat them while coming out innocent would be the fucking-- 

The bartender tsks, pushing around the bar and squatting next to you. You pathetically try and scramble to your feet, but every bone in your body feels like it’s full of cement, dragging you back to the floor. Your throat feels tight, and the sensation of breathing is akin to oxygen through a straw, you’re barely able to inhale deep enough to fight back the oncoming black fuzzing at the corners of your vision. 

“You know, you can’t drink this much this late in the night, it’s bad for your health.” The unsub sighs, helping you to your feet while you whimper. 

“Hold on,” He smiles, all teeth and golden crosses hanging from his neck, “I’ll help you.” 

It’s dark, late, no one’s probably outside other than the staff. Fuck it, you have to try. 

“Help…” You croak, “Help me--” But you can barely speak around the choking sensation in your throat, tightening like a noose. 

The Unsub sighs again, pulling your arm tighter around him, hand resting sickeningly on your waist, “We’re getting you outside, sir.” He explains, though noticeably louder than usual. Bastard was playing it up for the cameras in the lobby. Through your blurry vision, you look for any evidence of your team. Hotch, JJ, Morgan, Emily-- Spencer--

Not a single soul beyond a bellhop who looks at your predicament once, then continues pushing a cart down a hallway. 

A sob wracks its way out of your throat as you leave the warmth of the hotel to the stinging midnight rain. 

“Quiet.” The Unsub growls, “Crying won’t kill you faster.” 

You’re barely conscious when he tosses you in the back of a truck, which you distantly recognize from the local church that transports the elderly, and slams the door behind you-- leaving you in total darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: torture, grief, blood, gore, a lot of angst

There are things in this world that you’re glad you don’t ever have to experience. Some people get off on pain and do scary things. Jumping off of planes, getting into close combat battle.   
If anyone has, ‘drugged by a serial killer’, on their list, you could safely tell them that they should remove it.   
Waking up, you feel sluggish. Your head burns with a headache and you have to stare at the pile of unseemly vomit on the floor for too long minutes before you realize you’re in danger.

Head rolling back, you scan the room around you. It was a basement, you could tell from the small fire escape windows in the back corners. It was dirty, musty, full of cobwebs and unhidden piping.   
Curious yet, you focus hard on a pile of misshapen ‘something’ and identify it as green hymns. Hymns, basement, the smell of old people and shitty wine-- You were in a goddamn church basement. 

But this didn’t fit the unsub’s MO. His murders had been done in the moment, breaking into people’s houses. Instead, he had drugged and kidnapped you. 

Escalating, he’s escalating, is what you’d imagine Spencer would call it. 

Oh fuck. You whimper as tears begin to blur your vision, panic rising in your chest. Spencer’s last fucking memory of you was a stupid attempt at flirting. Not only that, you were going to die being known as the pathetic fucker who tried to hit on someone way above your level. 

“Careful, don’t ruin the flooring.” The unsub drawls from the corner, flipping idly through a youth bible, the cover colorful and bright, “Though I suppose it’ll be stained later anyway. Cry as much as you want, then. Just keep it quiet, or I’ll make sure you can’t cry anymore.” 

A shudder runs through you, and you barely hold back the panicked scream that works its way through your ruined throat. Vaguely through the numbness, you can feel fabric filling your mouth and weighing on your tongue. You’re still a bit paralyed-- it seems. 

Your think frantically back to your college studies of date rape drugs, shutting your eyes to go back to that time.   
Flavorless, almost instant, a paralytic-- nausea-- these could be signs of any of them. 

But it was quick, you knew that. Not many of them set in as soon as yours did. Being mixed with the hard liquor must have been an accelerant.   
GHB, your brain supplies, it was GHB.

You knew this, you could get out of here. Knowledge is power, and you can speak your way through anything. 

GHB wore off after 3-6 hours, and you were still having issues. Meaning it couldn’t be more than 6 since you were dragged from the hotel. You reach back into your memory, grasping for the last clock you saw before you were kidnapped.   
It had to be around 3 AM. It was nearing 2:30 when you left your hotel room. Which meant it was roughly around 4 AM or 9 AM.   
Glancing to the window, you see the peaking pale blue of morning. Despite the panic that rises when you realize, your kidnapper doesn’t have a lot more time before people would ask questions (which you think means you’re definitely going to die soon), you know that sunrise had to be between 6 AM or sooner. At most, you had 3 and a half more hours of this paralysis. 

A sinking feeling hits your gut when you realize, no, you won’t live that long. 

Best case scenario, it lasts for only an hour or so longer, but even then-- you’re not sure how long you can stall or how long the unsub intends on keeping you around. 

It had to be before regular service started, so 7? 8? Why were churches so damn fickle about their goddamn service times?! Why couldn’t they all just start at the same time so you didn’t have to fucking figure this shit out?!

In your frustration, you nearly tip back in the chair, flinging your feet that were tied roughly to the chair legs. 

The book the Unsub was reading noticeably slams shut. 

You curse under your breath. You needed to get out soon, and you needed a plan NOW. 

\---

“Morgan,” Hotch huffs, seeing the man finally emerge from the elevator, dressed and ready, “How much longer were you and Y/N intending on taking? It’s nearly 6:00.”

Morgan raises an eyebrow, “Y/N’s been awake a lot longer than me. They weren’t even there when I woke up.” 

Hotch frowns, remembering how late they had been awake last night, “It’s possible they didn’t sleep at all, then. He went to bed late.” 

“Well, I didn’t hear him come in.” Morgan explains, stretching slightly, “That’d explain it. Maybe he’s still wandering around the hotel.” 

“Regardless, he shouldn’t be late like this. As much, I told him not to stay up all night.” 

Morgan laughs, “Alright dad.” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

Emily perks up, watching the elevator doors open with no y/n in them again. 

“Are we sure they’re still in the hotel?” 

JJ pokes her teasingly, “Are you worried, hm?” 

Emily swipes her away with a smile, “No, I just want to start catching this guy. He’s a real piece of work.” 

Hotch mumbles something under his breath that neither women catch, but causes Morgan to blurt out laughing. 

“What?” 

“I said, maybe he’s still in Reid’s room.” 

JJ gasps, “No-- Reid actually made a move?” 

Hotch snorts, “No, but when I left them last night, they seemed oddly close. I figure,” He sighs, clearly annoyed, “Maybe they stayed together in the single room.” 

“No way,” Morgan laughs, “No way Reid was that slick. He’s still worrying about being ‘too much’ and ‘not cool enough’ or some stupid shit.” 

Emily sobers slightly, lips downturned at the memory of him and Morgan arguing on the plane. He hadn’t been able to stop talking about you since you both bumped into each other. Then, suddenly, he gains some sense of sacrifice and says he’s not ‘good enough’. Her fingers tighten around JJ’s palm as she remembers the countless text arguments the two of them had over sense of worth. How you clearly liked him. But, as brilliant as the boy genius was, he was also dull and dense as hell. 

“What about me being slick?” The elevator opens and the crew looks over brightly to dim when they see Spencer Reid emerge alone. 

“Where’s Y/n?” JJ asks, eyebrows wiggling to hide her slight concern. 

Spencer looks away, biting his lip with anxiety, “Why are you asking me? I don’t know.” 

“We thought he went with you last night.” Morgan asks, suddenly sobering himself. 

“Why would he--” Spencer sputters, “No, he-I... “ He looks ashamed, tapping his foot, “I left him at the bar last night. I’d imagine he went back to his room.” 

Immediately, Hotch goes from sitting to standing, “He didn’t.” 

Reid looks slapped with the information. 

“He didn’t come back to his room last night and he hasn’t showed up all morning. Morgan didn’t even hear him return, we thought you and him were together.” 

“N-no! I wouldn’t do that to him. It was late, I was buzzed-- I was reading too much into things he said. I had to leave early.” 

JJ jumps to her feet, texting Garcia in an instant for a ping on your mobile device. 

Spencer paces slightly, walking between the irritated Hotch to JJ now on call with Penelope, her voice thick with maternal worry. 

“What’s going on? Where’s y/n?” He asks, throat dry. 

Morgan wheels on him, pressing a finger into Spencer’s sternum, “We don’t know. Because you left him alone in the middle of a goddamn investigation. With an unsub who targets LGBTQ people on the loose!” 

“Y/n isn’t--”

“Shut up!” Morgan howls, barely pushing Reid back with boiling fury in his eyes, “You fucking know he is, you saw how he reacted to that first scene. You’ve seen how he acts around you. Quick beating around the bush and admit it-- he fucking likes you. You’re just too much of a fucking coward to admit it.” 

Reid stammers, eyes wide. 

JJ spins, running up to Hotch, “The ping is in the building, by the lounge. Maybe he just fell asleep?” 

Emily takes her hand and they start leading the crew to where the ping was, seeing it only leads to the bar, where your mobile device lays cracked on the ground beneath it. 

Hotch picks it up, stony face clicking on the phone and seeing it distort oddly from the crack in it’s corner. 

“Hotch--” Spencer starts, only to be stopped by a hand raise by Hotchner. 

“Y/n has been kidnapped by the Florida Killer.” 

\--

Pitiful, is what you think when you spit out another sticky stream of blood from your lips. 

Pitiful is what this is. You’ve definitely handled worse but you’re taking this like it’s your first time being beat around by someone.   
Though, you remember mournfully, it’s the first time someone’s done it with a serrated knife. 

Turns out, this guy fucking hates noise. It’s a cue you pick up on after he slices open your thigh when you scream for mercy. To your benefit, he had just nearly pulled off a nail. You felt you were allowed a scream, but that wasn’t his type, apparently.   
He likes the quiet. 

At first, you were puzzled by the way your right arm was positioned as opposed to the left. On your left, your palm was facing down. But on the right, your palm was raised to the sky. It strained almost uncomfortably against the harsh rope tied around your wrists. 

But, halfway through this sick bastard’s spelling bee, you realized why he opened your arm to be the largest canvas. 

You cry, biting so hard on the cloth between your teeth you think you chip bone. 

“Stop,” You sob, muffled by the cloth, “Please, let me speak--” 

“Speak?” He seeths, punctuating the next letter with a harsh push into your arteries. Blood coats your flesh, more red than skin, “And let you freaks infect my mind with your illness?” He laughs, “I think not.” 

“I’m not-- I’m not--” Denying your sexuality would be hard, but you’d rather do it then spend another second in this fucking basement. 

He presses his knife to your lips, blade cutting your cupid’s bow, “Don’t lie,” He snarls, “If you’re going to be a fucking sinner, be honest about them. Confess your sins to god, child, confess them!” 

In a swift motion, he slices open the two lips and your chin, blood pooling into your mouth. You cough, splatting red across your lap. 

“I saw you and that fucking homo,” He says, dragging another curving letter into your skin, “The way you act. Fucking disgusting.”   
“No!” You start, back bending when in retaliation, he slams his fist into your nose, “No,” You whimper, quieter, “He’s not gay, he’s nothing like me. That’s why he left me.” 

“Oh?” He snorts, “And why should I believe the devil?” 

“Because he wouldn’t have left if.. If he liked me. He doesn’t like guys, and he doesn’t like me. He-he could never like me.” 

The unsub laughs, “You sound so noble, sinner against god. If you spent less time whoring around men, maybe you wouldn’t be here.” 

He finishes his word with a flourish of his knife, puncturing the end of it with the full blade. 

You let out clipped screams, and if he punishes you for it-- You don’t feel it past the blinding hot pain. Tears slip from your eyes, only gathering at the ends of your jaw and wetting your chest. You weren’t sure when it came off, your shirt, but it was somewhere between the horrible painful ache in your thighs and now. When he found out you were trans, he couldn’t have been more delighted in catching what you’re sure was a double jeopardy in his mind. 

He takes another cloth, shoving it even further into your mouth and clogging your throat. 

Another hour, you think, you can live another hour. Just one more hour and you’ll be out of here. You can figure this out. 

Your head comes into contact with something heavy and jarring, instantly blacking you out. 

\--

The security camera footage was chilling, watching you fall to your knees and start scrambling, calling something out. It was rough for Hotch to watch, even more so Reid. He didn’t even make it through the run, turning to follow Morgan who went to interrogate the bellhop you maybe saw. 

His heart crumbles when he thinks about you being alone, maybe calling out for him. Knowing that he left you alone with some bastard. 

Spencer buries his face in his hands, taking in a shaky breath. He’s no use to you breaking down. Who knows how long you had? 

Morgan corners the bellhop, easily intimidating him into saying who was working that night, who he saw with you. 

“Martin Dulaney! I swear, it was him. He works late nights at the bar, but I don’t know when he gets off or what he does! I just thought he was escorting him to his car…” 

Morgan holds back the urge to slam his fist into the wall, just to scare the little shit a bit more. He backs off, thanking the boy before fully ignoring Reid to instead focus on getting back to Hotch. 

“Morgan--” Spencer mumbles, “I didn’t know--” 

“I know you didn’t.” Morgan hisses at him, “And that’s the worst part. Is that none of this is your fault when I want it to be. Because if he dies, I know I won’t have any more right to blame you than I will myself. It’s his first case, I…” Morgan pauses, gritting his teeth, “Don’t fucking talk to me, focus on finding this bastard.” 

Spencer nods, following Morgan with quiet footsteps. 

At the same time, it seems, when Morgan reaches JJ, they’ve come to the same conclusion; “Martin Dulaney. A bartender here. That’s how he gets to the vics, he sees them cheating or hiding away in the hotel-- then coherces them to visit him.”

“But where?” Emily asks. 

“Here.” Hotch says, pulling the monitor the hotel brought him towards the group. In the grainy footage, they see you get pulled into the blind spot and several minutes later, a van exiting the parking lot. It’s hard to see, but Spencer can just barely see; 

“New Testament Church, Pensacola.” 

Hotch turns off the monitor, nodding to the helpful staff member, and heading towards the door. 

“We move now. Get the address as soon as possible.” 

\---

Spencer feels his blood pump through him as he exits the car. Everything fell into slow motion, clipped moments of what is eternity. Being the fastest, he pushes past the front doors, frantically searching for the basement entrance. He’s blocked by two worrying priests, who he pushes past and leaves Emily to explain why. The steps into the basement feel like the longest, his shoe hitting rotting wood so slow he could see the second they connected.  
It all feels useless, it all feels empty.   
Then he sees you. The unsub, he’s there too, but he sees you first. It’s hard for him to admit it, but in such little time, he was surprised how much blood was coating you. 

Two stumbling steps forward, three seconds drawing his gun. 

Four to hear Morgan screaming his name, pulling at his button up. Every rational thought leaves his mind, though, when Spencer sees your weak, limp, head roll forward like you took your last breath. Blood caking your scalp, fresh crimson dripping from the carved words in your arm. 

The unsub is bending at the hip, clutching at a wound, when Reid’s brain catches up with his vision. 

‘Tranny’. He had carved ‘Tranny’ into your arm and bicep. 

It all went red. All parties were lucky he didn’t keep shooting, aim for somewhere more vital. Every inch of Spencer Reid went from the shy genius to capable of murder in seconds flat when he saw you sprawling open on a chair, every inch dripping red. 

Morgan pushes past him, tackling the unsub and cuffing him. He’s shouting, rights and regulational things that left Reid a while ago. 

“Y/N…” He mumbles, standing there with his gun at his side. Spencer feels drunk in grief, stepping unsteadily towards your unmoving body. 

He drops to his knees, hands coming up to caress your tear stained cheeks, cloth filled mouth. In a flash of rage, he yanks it from your mouth, as if he could undo it all with enough force. 

But your head rolls into his hands, blood dribbling from your lips in a steady stream. With careful surgeon precision, he cuts off your bindings in a cold calm. Eagerly, he accepts your weight when it finally slumps forward. 

“It’ll be okay,” He shivers, feeling trails of blood soak through his clothes, “You’ll be okay. You’ll be alright.” Distantly, he runs his fingers through your hair, “Cmon, silly philosopher boy, you still have to tell me what art means.” Hot wet streaks hit his hand, and he becomes aware he’s crying. 

“It’s just the first job,” He hums, wrapping his arms around you, waiting patiently for your intake of breath, “It’s the worst. You’ll get past it and you’ll annoy me more. Y/n, you still have my cardigan, you can’t…” The peace breaks, a sob wracking his body, fingers digging into your form, “You can’t leave yet, please-- please!” 

JJ pushes the crowd outside away, Hotch already on the phone with dispatch about an ambulance and EKG kit. 

Morgan goes to help the both of you up, but Spencer stays rigid, snapping at anyone who gets too close.  
“Reid,” He pleads, “He needs to get to a hospital-- he’s not dead yet, we can still…” 

Spencer buries his face into your neck, waiting for your smell of chestnut and honey to bring him back to the first day you met. 

“He just started, Derek.” He cries, shaking. 

“I know.” 

“I-I--I thought we could--” 

“I know.” 

“I wanted to stop this,” He screams, his voice shattering in his chest, “This is what I thought I could end. He didn’t deserve this, Morgan,” Spencer whips around to look at Morgan, bile filling his mouth, “Why does this keep happening?! Why can’t I love someone without it killing them?!” 

Morgan turns away, a hand over his mouth and eyes swimming with tears. 

“Cmon,” Spencer mutters back into your shoulder pressing a kiss to your bloody shoulder blades just trembling in his touch, “Cmon, wake up, keep talking about stupid old men and call me a genius again-- please--” 

“Please, please, just one more time--”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: hospital setting, bandaging
> 
> spencer reid being INCREDIBLY soft

You aren’t dead, you know that much. 

Death doesn’t usually mean this much pain, though then again-- you weren’t much acquainted with death. 

If being dead means this much constant pain, you felt like every philosopher’s idea of sleeping like the dead were entirely wrong, and you should be rightly compensated. 

But being dead usually, in your mind, thought that you didn’t have any brain activity. And, well, if you were able to crack jokes about how much fucking pain you were in, that might mean you’re not dead. 

Alright, so being not-dead includes pain and brain activity. Not alive, but not dead. That kind of sucked. Maybe it was a coma, but even then-- you hadn’t ever reacted to the world around you. There was a world, right? 

Testing your reach, you do a mental sweep of appendages. All of them were there, you’re pretty sure. 

Or, at least, you’re pretty sure your right hand is. That one hurts the fucking most, there’s no way that shit hurts that much and isn’t attached to your bitch of a body. 

Twitch, cmon, you can do that much. You, with much effort, lift and drop your pointer finger. It’s not much, but you know that much autonomy pretty much rules out a coma. Again, not the worst news going on right now. Which means whatever heavy blanket of exhaustion raining over your body is just… something. 

It’s something you know the cause of, the symptoms of something, but it’s just out of your understanding right now. 

God, what was it? 

Far beyond the veil of darkness, you hear rapid beeps and a grip on your shoulder. For a moment, wild instincts kick in and you flail as much as you can. 

“Y/n!” It’s Hotch, you know it’s Hotch. What’s Hotch doing here? 

Still, knowing he’s there means no one will hurt you, you’re sure of it. Your mind wanders to a stern, but comforting, hand on your back. The fatherly grin of someone trying to keep you safe. The sigh of a relenting friend, when you get your new job. You’re safe, here, you know you are. 

You relax and through the muddy sick your brain is in, you push towards the touch. 

“You’re alright, agent. Just stay still. You’ll reopen your wounds.” 

Wounds? Well, that would explain the splitting pain in your arm. 

“...I’m sorry.” His voice is so thick with misery, “I shouldn’t have left you there. I’m sorry. Christ, Y/N, I’m so sorry.” 

As far as you’re concerned, you’re still alive, so you’re not exactly sure what he’s apologizing for. 

“Shm..” You slur, throat constricting painfully, causing a round of weak coughs, “shudd..up.” 

“Is he trying to speak?” Is that Morgan? What’s Morgan and Hotch doing in the same space and it’s not for work? God, you wish you had enough energy to crack that joke to them, you’re sure they’d love it. 

Instead, you roll your head into the radiating warmth of a hand. In this sea of cold, whispering unknowns, you’re glad it’s there. Conversation happens that you can’t identify, then Hotch’s voice comes back into focus. 

“Just rest, got it? Don’t fucking die.” 

Every inch of your energy was just spent moving and forming whatever words you could, so you simply wait against the warmth until unconsciousness pulls you under again. 

\--

The next time you come to, you’re not even aware your eyes are open until you are. And suddenly, the world shoves senses into hyperdrive. You flinch, fluttering your vision shut in hopes of deterring it. Everything’s so loud. 

“Loud…” You rasp, pressing back into a soft material. 

Beside you, someone gasps and mutters, “What? What’d you say? Y/n?” 

“It’s….. Loud. Bright.” You wheeze, face contorting in pain. The ache of week old injuries starts flaring up your side, tears now running down your cheeks in response. 

“Hold on,” Someone says, and you hear shudders close and lights flick off. A door somewhere shuts and the noise is dimmed. 

You let out a sigh of relief, still wincing in pain, but able to open your eyes. 

“My arm,” You gasp, fingers dancing above what you register as large gauze bandages, “Fuck-- The pain-- help--” 

Something beside you clicks, and you just look in time to see some sort of morphine injector pop up a number or two. A few tortuous minutes later, your pain subsides and you can finally begin dissecting the world around you. 

Hands cup your cheek and run their thumb below your eye. 

“Y/N, I’m so sorry,” 

“Spence?” You rasp, the blurring image of a human solidifying into features you remember making your stomach flutter. 

Sharp jawline, soft brown curly hair and gentle eyes. 

He ducks his head with a relieved sob, breathing like a man gasping for air. 

“I missed...,” Spencer’s hands tremble against your cheek, still so utterly cautious with you, “I missed your voice so goddamn much.” 

“Hey,” You coo, your injured hand raising with great effort to run your fingers through his curls, “I’m right here Spence, it’s okay.” You’re confused as hell, but you’d rather die than tell him to stop touching you. 

Both of his hands grab yours tangled in his locks, holding your palm to his cheek with tears running down his face. 

“You’re okay--God--” He laughs, almost incredulous, “You’re okay.” 

“I am,” You reply, lips flickering into a smile, “I’m doin’ alright actually now that you’re holding my hand like that.” 

He chuckles, which turns into a heartwrenching sob as he curls his fingers into yours. 

“I thought you were dead.” 

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.” You whisper, spellbound by the emotions breaking over and spilling out. Did he really care that much? 

“Don’t ever do that again.” He says, kissing the inside of your palm in a moment of sudden tenderness. Despite the circumstance, a spark of thrill shivers up your spine, reddening your cheeks at that. 

“Uh,” You cough and nod vigorously, “Yeah, won’t happen again. Holy shit.” 

You glance around, easily concluding you were in a hospital. Not dead, in a hospital. Which means you survived being kidnapped and tortured. Woah. 

“Where’s…” You ask, suddenly afraid of the answer, “Where’s everyone else?” 

Spencer sniffles, wiping his face with the back of his hand, “We’re taking shifts. One person per couple hours. We had to switch hotels and stay for a bit longer than we thought but--” 

“H-how long have I been out?” 

“Maybe…” Spencer swallows hard, “Like a week? And a few days.” 

“Oh…” You say, internally screaming, “I didn’t mean-- I didn’t want to keep you guys here for longer than you need to be.” 

“Stop talking please,” Spencer says, gently squeezing your hand, “As long as you were here, we would need to be here.” 

This is… too much to process at once. The sudden influx of emotions was already so much.   
“How much longer do I have to say?” 

Spencer perks up at that, “Maybe not too much longer. Another four days at most, but no longer than you need to be. Please, Y/N,” He leans forward and kisses your forehead, “Just focus on getting better.” 

You mentally stumble again, and you’re sure your heart monitor definitely picks up your racing.   
“Not that I’m not a huge fan of it, but what’s with the uh, pda?” 

Now Spencer’s the one who looks put in the spotlight, suddenly avoiding your gaze, “I just missed you. We just met you, it’d… hurt too much to lose you.” 

Oh. Right. Not for… any other reason. 

He runs his thumb across your knuckles, “Go back to sleep, I won’t be doing anything interesting until it’s Morgan’s shift anyway. Just reading.” 

You click your tongue, looking down at your lap and over to where he’s holding your hand. 

“Could you… read out loud?” You ask, readying yourself for a long listed reason why he couldn’t. You’re sure forcing him to read that slow would kill him--

“Of course.” He says, an easy grin spread across his face. And for the life of you, you can’t detect a single hesitation in his movements as he goes back to page one and begins reading some mundane report on population count in 2012. 

You fall asleep with his hand holding yours, confident you’ll recover just fine if he keeps thrilling your days with tenderness.

\---

The next time you wake up, JJ and Morgan are there. Which, thank god. You missed them both. 

“Wr… Morg’n?” You slur, sitting up. Morgan looks over to you, face melting back into one of concern.

“Hey, pretty boy. How are you feeling?” 

You clear your throat a few times, but give back a wobbly, “Better, actually.” You swing your legs over the side of your bed and though Morgan looks like he’ll have a heart attack then, he relaxes when he sees your toes stretch and your legs kick. 

JJ sits next to you and wraps her arms around you, “I’m so glad you’re feeling better.” She says, burying her face in your shoulder. 

“Me too,” You laugh, “I’m kind of already tired of this hospital.” 

Morgan just nods, “Hopefully if recovery goes well, you’ll be out of here before the end of the week. So just focus on getting better, yeah?” 

“Will do, chief.” 

He snorts at that, turning away. Still, there’s an uneasiness to the air that has yet to be addressed and screams from their posture. 

“What were you guys talking about?” 

JJ and Morgan exchange a look, “If he doesn’t tell him soon, I’m gonna do it myself.” Morgan grits his teeth, shaking his head, “Stupid kid.” 

“Morgan.” JJ huffs, the two of them locked in a mute battle between eyes. 

Morgan seems to relent, rolling his eyes, “Spencer’s being stupid.”

“Really?” You ask, genuinely surprised. 

“Yes, really. As much as he’s a genius and the sweetest guy I’ve met, he sure is dense.” 

You chuckle lacing your hands with JJ for comfort. Her eyes glaze over your heavily bandaged arm and you shove her softly, “Hey, I’m alright. I’ll be back to your guys’ side before you know it.” 

She lets out a shuddering breath, “I know. We’d probably be useless without you.” 

You laugh, “You’ve only had me for a week.” 

“All the more reason I’m sure we’d be lost.” 

You don’t know how to reply to that, so you instead run through simple physical therapy things. You actually manage to walk with some help from Morgan, much to JJ’s delight. Though it takes a lot out of you, the smiles they have make it all worth it. 

With a steady pattern like that, you’re discharged within the week. Spencer, somehow, doesn’t come back. Or, if he does, you don’t catch him during his shifts. Whenever you question it, Morgan begins a rant about how he ‘loves Reid, but seriously thinks he’s the dumbest man on Earth’ and JJ just rolls her eyes. The few moments you have with Hotch bring you the most peace. Though you can tell he harbors a lot of guilt from what happened, he distracts you from pain with silly past stories the team went through and some of his rookie mistakes. Emily brings you food, acting like nothing has changed.   
She’ll sit on call with you and Garcia, talking shit about someone Penelope saw at work or this ugly dude Emily saw today that gave off ‘boomer’ vibes. You don’t have the heart to correct them, giggling through your times. 

You just wish Spencer showed up. 

Finally, on your day of discharge, everyone shows up with things packed. You’re ready to hop on a jet and head home, tired of the Florida experience and ready to never see the state again. 

You refuse any wheelchair, walking arm in arm with Hotch to the parking lot, where everyone piles into the truck. Just as you’re slowly walking over, a hand taps your shoulder. You turn and see a very guilty looking Spencer, with the same dopey smile you remember from the first time you met. 

“I’ll be right there,” You tell Hotch, who hesitates but decides to go start up the car anyway.   
You turn to Spencer, eyebrows furrowed, “Why are you avoiding me?” 

He gapes, “I don’t mean to, I’m sorry--” 

“Is it something I said? Are you still upset over-over the flirting thing we did? I-I swear Spencer you--” You run a hand through your hair, laughing but with no humor, “If you’re straight, that’s okay, just please don’t avoid me because I don’t think I could keep doing this job while never talking to you.” 

“Hold on… you… think I’m straight?” He asks, set back. 

“Yeah, I-- There’s no way.” 

“I--I didn’t know how to tell you,” He spirals, arms crossed, “I saw the way you and Morgan were talking, you and JJ even, and I thought I had absolutely no chance! You’re just so… you,” He says it like he talks about space, the same wonderment, “And I’m just me. I wanted-- I wanted to kiss you that night, but I didn’t think...I didn’t want to hurt you or get you hurt and that’s exactly what happened anyway. Y/n, I can’t let you be hurt like that again and have it be my fault-- I couldn’t handle…” 

He trails off as you hobble forward, taking his face in your hands and kissing the words off his lips. 

You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, letting them loosely hang. Feeling his hands grip your waist is like two puzzle pieces finally fitting together, finally finding their match.   
You break apart, eyes still trained on his lips as you whisper, “You stupid, brilliant, perfect genius. I fucking like you.” 

“I like you too, silly philosopher.” He whispers back, like a promise just between the two of you. 

You grin, nuzzling your face into his sweater, laughing, “I’m so mad it took me this long to tell you. But god, you’re stupid hot.”   
He eventually chuckles too and wraps his arms around you. 

“You’re gorgeous, I never… thought you’d settle for someone like me.” He admits. 

“You’re so stupid, Morgan is right.” You blubber, pressing small kisses across his cheeks. 

He laughs and shouts, “Morgan knows? He said I was stupid?” 

From the van behind you two, you hear; “Hurry up lovebirds, we have a jet to catch!” 

You yelp, completely forgetting the team was there.  
“Sorry!” You shout back, red faced. 

He grabs your hand, face lights up in joy, “Let’s get going then?” 

The warm Florida breeze brings the promise of warm evenings and many years spent in his arms, a future you wish you saw the second you bumped into this absolute fool. 

You smile, pressing a grin to his lips in a kiss once more before saying breathlessly: 

“Yeah, together.”


End file.
